Title: Working Out 15: Three Men in a Car . . . not to mention the dog
By: Shelley Russell
August 24, 2007 – June 28, 2009
First I want to thank fans of this series for your patience. I appreciate you very much. Receiving an email asking if there's another story coming out is intensely gratifying. From the bottom of my heart and the tips of my fingers, thank you.
Second a huge thanks for the support, nudges, and encouragement of all the fine writers at the Warrick/Grissom group. Y'all rock like nobody else!
Third, as always, to my betas extraordinaire Rebecca and Byron who make these stories so much better.
And last to Jerome K. Jerome, who's no doubt spinning in his grave at what his book has inspired.
Summary: Warrick and Gil take a recovering Nick home to Dallas for his parents' 50th Wedding Anniversary.

****** 

Part 1: Las Vegas to Albuquerque 
 

"You can't take that with you."  

The soft words broke into the tenor's soaring aria, "Una furtiva lagrima." One of the composer Donizetti's best. An aria sung by a man so completely in love he can completely deceive himself. It was one of Gil Grissom's favorites, but, he smiled, he would much rather listen to his boyfriend's beautiful voice. Muting the boom box, Grissom glanced up at the owner of that beautiful, low, sexy voice: Warrick Brown, all six feet two inches of him, handsome as Michelangelo's David, dressed in a tight fitting t-shirt and loose fitting jeans, leaning all too cool against the office door.  

A knowing purse of lips, then blue eyes flicked from Warrick to the mechanical tarantula wobbling slowly across the office floor. Eight fake legs jiggling, the spider aimed for a plexiglass terrarium. Where a real tarantula lurked. Gris knew Warrick wouldn't come any closer, even if only the fake tarantula ran free. 

Grissom shrugged and nodded toward the terrarium."I thought Miss Shelob would enjoy the company." 

"Does she?" 

"No." 

"She's a discriminating arachnid," Warrick shivered. 

Grissom smiled. Warrick towered intelligent, strong, and brave. He possessed a muscular body sculpted through hard work and exercise as well as an agile brain honed through intense study and wide-ranging experiences. He could take on an Abrams tank and win hands down. But when it came to spiders, well, Warrick would much rather take on an Abrams tank.  

Greater love hath no man than this, that a man put up with his boyfriend's eight legged spawn of Satan.  

Taking pity on Warrick, Gris punched the off button on the egg-shaped remote control. The hairy mechanical spider jerked to a stop. Unrealistic glowing red eyes fell dark. He snatched up the tarantula and dropped bug and remote control into the bottom drawer of his desk. Digging his keys out of his pocket, he locked the drawer. 

Warrick didn't even try to hide the relief in his sparkling green eyes. "Man, that is nasty," he shivered again and cautiously approached the desk. "I'm gonna get Greg Sanders. Anniversary present, my ass." 

Grissom shrugged. "Greg meant well."  

They should have suspected trouble when Greg shoved the brightly wrapped package into Warrick's large hands. Especially when Gil and Warrick had specifically stated "No gifts" on the invitation to their six month anniversary party. 

Warrick snorted. "Yeah. Rrrright. You locking it away so Greg can't terrorize the recruits again?" 

"I'm locking it away so Greg can't terrorize dayshift again." Gris picked up Miss Shelob's terrarium and set it on a shelf behind his desk. Miss Shelob was the only tarantula who inhabited his office. Speedy and Ziggy stayed at home in the townhouse. "I don't need the grief from Ecklie." 

Warrick glided around the desk to stand closer to Grissom. "You're trying hard to stay on our A.D.'s good side." 

"I want everyone back together," Gris said simply. He threw the latest issue of the Journal of Forensic Sciences into his briefcase and snapped it shut. 

With his usual insight, Warrick said, "You know, even if you'd been in charge of the shift, Nick still would've been kidnapped." 
 

Even though Warrick was partly right, Gris shook his head. "The me being in charge isn't the point. Nick being alone is. If I hadn't . . . misstepped with Ecklie, he wouldn't have broken the team apart. We would've had a fully staffed shift. Nick wouldn't have gone to that scene by himself."  

Warrick leaned in close. His rich warm spice scent set Grissom's heart to beating a little faster. "What's done is done, baby." 

"Yeah. But what's done won't ever happen again. Not on my shift," Gris stated forcefully. 

Green eyes glittered. Caramel brown nostrils flared. A slow smile simmered across Warrick's handsome features.  

How odd. Gris quirked his head. Those physical manifestations usually signaled that Warrick was about to grab his boyfriend for a long, deep kiss. Gris took a step back. Was Warrick turned on by Grissom's unexpected alpha leader pronouncement? Hmmm. Filing that thought away for future experimentation, he picked up his briefcase, took another step back, and scooped up his laptop. 

"Huh. Where you going with all that?" Hands on hips, feet spread wide, Warrick blocked Grissom's path from behind his desk. 

"I know. With Nick's paragliding equipment, our golf clubs, and the gifts for all your long lost relatives living in Texas, there's barely enough room for 3 suitcases. I can put these in the back seat." 

"Uh uh. No laptop. No briefcase filled with journals. This is supposed to be a vacation." 

Grissom protested, "But that's what I do on vacation: play golf, read journals, and surf the Internet." 

"Well, we all gotta make compromises. You got enough books and journals stuffed into your suitcase. The laptop and briefcase stay behind." 

"But--" Grissom's best wounded, pleading look only made Warrick cross his arms and gaze even more sternly.  

"Don't pout." 

"I'm not pouting," Gris pouted. 

The two men stared unyielding. And then Warrick's  wicked grin. "C'mon, baby. I'll keep you occupied." He leaned in closer. "Promise." 
 

Oh, god, that smooth, dark, sex-charged voice sparked in through Grissom's ears and burned an arc down to his toes. Trembling, he set the laptop and briefcase on his desk. 

With a triumphant chuckle, Warrick eased back and allowed Grissom out from behind his desk. But as he stepped past, a large hand cupped his right buttock. 

Gris whirled around. "Look, pal. Don't push your luck." 

Unfazed, Warrick shot a bolt of pure sex through hooded green eyes. "Baby, it's been so long. Haven't had more than a quick cuddle in almost two weeks." 

"If you don't behave yourself, it's going to be more than two weeks. And no more 'babies' in the office," Grissom hissed.  

Ever since the middle of June, all shifts at the Las Vegas Criminalistics Division had been slammed. On top of which, Grissom had been working double shifts simply to clear up paperwork. It was a condition imposed by A.D. Ecklie before Gris could take vacation.  

And on top of all that, for the last six weeks, Warrick had spent every waking hour taking care of Nick. At least, that's the way it seemed to Grissom. Not that Gris ever felt jealous or left out or neglected. Oh, no. He was far too noble and grown up ever to suffer those base emotions. Or so he told himself. 

"A'ight. I'll behave," Warrick growled, interrupting Grissom's thoughts. A long pink tongue licked a bow-shaped upper lip. "But . . . you know . . . I think about it sometimes." 

Graying eyebrows drew together in confusion.  

"Us. This office," whispered the sex-charged voice. 

Oh. Uh oh. Graying eyebrows shot for his hairline. Grissom wasn't 100 percent certain he knew what Warrick was thinking about. But from the velvet timbre in his boyfriend's deep voice, Gris could well imagine. And that was one erotic image Grissom didn't need associated with his office. God! He'd never get any paperwork done. 

"Warrick," Gris warned, beginning to back up. 

But his boyfriend followed. "Drawing all the shades. Locking the door." 

"Stop." 

"Turning down the lights. Bending you over your desk." 

Moaning, Grissom fled backwards from his own office. Right into a very surprised Sara Sidle. 

Staggering, dropping her clipboard, Sara barely managed to stay on her feet.  

"Watch where you're going, jerk!" she snapped, then swiped the hair blocking her vision. Not unexpected, she didn't apologize for calling her boss a jerk. "I thought you'd left town."  

Also not unexpected, Grissom didn't apologize for running into her. "I-I-I'm just leaving." He hoped she interpreted his flushed face for embarrassment not arousal. Collecting the clipboard, shoving it back into her hands, he stammered, "I-I have to-to, uh . . . go." 

With little dignity left, he sped down the hallway. Behind him he heard Sara call out, "Take care of Nick." 

"Oh, we got Nick's back," Warrick's teasing voice drawled. "You got Greg's?" 

"Har de har, big guy. Greg and I are just fine, thanks for asking."  

Face burning, Grissom plunged into the men's room which, thank god, was empty. A quick twist of the taps and Gris cupped his shaking hands into cold water then splashed his face. Damn. His boyfriend did not fight fair. Of course, Grissom failed to admit to himself that he seldom, if ever, fought fair. 

Rough paper towels scraping his face, Gris turned his mind to a suitable revenge. Once he was supervisor again, would he assign his favorite CSI to the first ripe decomp in a bathtub? a storm drain? a sewer? Or should he mistakenly let Ziggy and Speedy out of the bug room? A reflection of sheepish blue eyes peered out of the mirror over the sink. Well, there was fighting unfair, and there was fighting dirty. Escaped tarantulas would be overkill. Even for Grissom. 

With a deep breath, he simply decided to bide his time. And, speaking of time, if he was about to take a long road trip, a quick leak was definitely in order. Scooting over to the urinal, he relieved himself then returned to the sink. A thorough hand washing, more rough paper towels, fingers combing his hair, a quick fly check, and he was ready. 

"Hey, Gris," the men's room door opened, and Warrick stepped inside. "If we're gonna make Albuquerque tonight, we gotta get a move on." 

"Albuquerque? I thought we were staying in Gallup. The Petrified Forest? The Painted Desert? Acoma Pueblo?" 

"You gotta take that up with the Man with the Plan, Mr. Itinerary himself. Speaking of which, we better book before Nick cooks." 

Grissom momentarily forgot his disappointment and thought about the real reason for their trip. To take a traumatized Nick Stokes home to Dallas. 

"Nick still can't face the lab," Gris said softly.  

Even after six weeks. But then, it wasn't so surprising, considering the young man had been drugged, kidnapped, buried, tortured, stung repeatedly, and nearly blown to pieces one horrible night. Replaying the litany of horrors, Grissom momentarily felt chastened for ever feeling jealous or left out or neglected. Uh, not that he'd ever had any of those feelings, of course. 

"Nope," Warrick shook his head. "He's out front in the Lexus. Couldn't even face waiting in the parking garage."  

"He seemed to handle the anniversary party well." 

"Hate to tell you, baby, but he didn't. I found him throwing up in Catherine's guest bathroom. And that was even before the chapulines. If he could freak with concerned friends, how's he gonna handle a lab full of the morbidly curious? Not to mention Hodges. Ain't happenin', baby." 

Grissom nodded his head in sympathy, and then he realized that Warrick had once again said "baby." Twice.  

Schooling his face to his best glacial stare, Gris stepped in close to his boyfriend. "I thought I said no more 'babies' at work." 

"Yeah. You did." 

Grissom stared at the arrogant tilt to his boyfriend's chin. At the challenge in green eyes and full lips. And decided that this might be a perfect time to test a theory. To see if Warrick's knees would liquify in the face of Alpha Grissom.  

One more heartbeat, then he pounced. He ruthlessly pinned Warrick against the men's room door, spread strong fingers on both sides of his surprised, beautiful face. Rocking up onto the balls of his feet, Grissom kissed his taller boyfriend like a starving lion grabbing dinner. Ferocious. Single-minded. All-consuming. 

Yes. God, yes! The silky feel of plush lips, spicy scent of soft skin, helpless trembling of sculpted muscles, all pulled Grissom in closer. He forgot that he was merely testing a hypothesis. He forgot he was in the men's room at work. He forgot about everyone and everything but himself and his boyfriend, wrapped toe to toe, lip to lip, heartbeat to heartbeat. 

Then suddenly, Gris was roughly shoved backwards. Warrick broke free from Grissom's mauling grip and swirled past and into an empty stall. And as he swirled out of sight, the men's room door sprang open. 

And Grissom found himself face to face with Associate Director Conrad Ecklie. 

"Gil?! What the hell?! Were you blocking the door?" Propping it open with an oustretched, outraged arm, Ecklie glared suspiciously at Grissom. 

The relief Gris felt at Ecklie not catching one of his CSI supervisors lip-locked with one of his CSIs was quickly replaced by desperation to come up with a reason for blocking the door. Not surprising, Grissom blurted the truth, "An experiment!" 

Ecklie's sallow face blanched, and he took a step back. "An experiment?! One of your experiments? In here?!" 

"Yes." A deep breath. "I'm . . . I'm almost finished." 

Ecklie's dark eyes squinted frantically at the floor, ceiling, and walls of the men's room. "What were you . . . no, never mind, I don't want to know." He took another step back. "Gil, the men's room is absolutely off-limits, you got that?" 

"Of course, Conrad." Back to his usual collected self, Grissom smiled insincerely and moved toward the door. He could see a small, curious crowd gathering in the hallway. He needed to maneuver his boss out the door. And fast. 

"Absolutely no exceptions," Ecklie glowered, still keeping an eye on the men's room as if something big, hairy, and hungry was suddenly going to reach out and grab him for lunch. 

"Understood," Grissom politely nodded, herding Eckie into the hall, thinking he and Warrick were home free.  

But just as the men's room door crawled shut, Warrick's distraught voice rang out, "Grissom! Scorpion!" 

"Scorpions?!" Ecklie squealed, sweat breaking out on his balding head. 

The growing crowd in the hallway gasped. 

Grissom blinked. And silently cursed his boyfriend's genius imagination and acting skills. Let's see. Scorpions. Several species native to southern Nevada. None especially venomous. All outdoor dwellers. But. Yes. Of course. He nodded, "Centruroides exilicauda. The bark scorpion. A recent import. Small. Slender. Venomous. But not fatal. At least not to healthy adults." 

"You--you," Ecklie sputtered. "You put a stop to this! Right now, Gil! You exterminate everything in there. If I see one bug . . . one . . . anything that doesn't belong in there, I will put you on administrative leave pending a full hearing, so help me god!" 

"But, Conrad, bark scorpions are god's creatures, too."  

Oh, dear. Even though Gris spoke honestly, that was not the most politic statement in these circumstances. Ecklie's face turn surly. So did the crowd behind him.  

"I don't give a shit!" the Associate Director of the LVPD Crime Lab roared. Large teeth bared, he wagged his finger in Grissom's face. "Get those creatures out of my men's room now!" Ecklie turned on his heel and pushed his way through the crowd. "Back to work, people! You can lynch Supervisor Grissom after he fumigates the bathroom!" 

Lab techs, cops, and CSIs--men and women alike--glared at Grissom.  

With an imperious right eyebrow, he calmly returned stare for stare as he backed his way into the men's room. The door slowly swung shut behind him, and he collapsed against it. 

"Warrick, whatever possessed you to bring up scorpions?" 

"Grissom?!" A rough, wavering voice answered from one of the stalls. 

"Ecklie's gone," Gris sighed. "You can drop the act." 

"Grissom, get in here." Uncharacteristic for his boyfriend to carry on a hoax so long. What could he be planning? 

Pursing his lips, Grissom said, "I thought you said we had to go." 

"Gris, please," Warrick pleaded. " I will never, ever, call you the 'b' word at work again if you'll get in here, now!" 

Grissom launched himself off the men's room door and lunged for the middle stall. More because of the desperation in his boyfriend's voice than for the promise of no more 'babies' at work.  

"Anima?" He pushed on the stall door, but it was locked. He immediately dropped to his knees onto the cold tile floor and peered under the metal door. Of all the things he expected to see, a  perfect specimen of the Centruroides exilicauda wasn't one of them. An adult by the looks of its 3 inch length, the sand colored scorpion perched unsuspectingly on the tile sloping up from the men's room drain. Right in between the stall door and his boyfriend. Grissom blinked. Speaking of whom, where was his boyfriend?  

Pressing his cheek to the floor, Grissom's blue eyes scanned quickly up the base of the toilet to the seat. Warrick's tennis shoes and the hem of his blue jeans were just visible. 

"Anima, are you all right?" 

The tennis shoes shifted. "Yeah. Just . . . get that little fucker." 

"Ah." Gris quickly dug into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small forceps and a sandwich-sized plastic bag. Standard equipment for a CSI; required for a forensic entomologist. Baggie in left hand, forceps in right, cheek pressed against the tile, Grissom slowly reached out to the bark scorpion. Its tail looped relaxed over its back rather than reared for a strike.  

"C'mon, Grissom. Bag it already!" 

"You know, bark scorpions aren't native to Nevada," he intoned in his best, calming voice as he inched toward the scorpion. "They probably hitched a ride on a palm tree or other foliage imported from Arizona. Or California. They're one of the few species of scorpions to live communally. The construction on the PD expansion must've disturbed their nest. This might be an advance scout."  

"There might be more?! Aw, shit!" 

Gris moved slowly not only to avoid startling the scorpion but his boyfriend as well. Bark scorpions were renowned for being fast and agile. And unlike most scorpions, they could climb. A fact he decided not to share with Warrick. 

At last in position, balanced securely on his left elbow, he darted the forceps like a bird's beak and snagged the scorpion's tail. 

"Thank you, Jesus!" Warrick exploded.  

With practiced skill, Grissom maneuvered the struggling arachnid into the baggie, deftly sealed the bag most of the way shut, released the scorpion, then slid the forceps out of the bag. A deft flourish, and the bark scorpion was locked in tight. Gris rolled out and away from the stall as he heard Warrick jump down from the toilet seat and yank open the stall door. A large hand grasped Grissom's elbow and pulled him up and into a fierce embrace. 

"Anima, it's all right," Gris gentled, automatically holding the scorpion an arm's length away and grabbing his boyfriend hard about the waist. Grissom didn't even stop to think that anyone else he would have teased or lectured or reasoned with. One of the many pieces of evidence that proved he was a man completely in love. 

"It's goddamned embarrassing," Warrick mumbled into Grissom's neck. "I'm . . . damn, how much does that thing weigh?" 

"Less than an ounce." 

"Shit. I outweigh that little fucker 3100 times over." 
 

Being a man in love, Gris didn't point out that ever since Warrick had been getting regular servings of Grissom's cooking, it was more like 3300 times over. "Well, around ten percent of adult American men suffer from arachnophobia. I suspect it's even higher when scorpions are involved." 

His all-American adult boyfriend pulled back, shaking his head. "Me and Chris never should've sneaked into 'Clash of the Titans.'"  

Grissom smiled, "Ray Harryhausen's last film." 

Warrick nodded, "Giant scorpions, man. Scary as shit to a 10 and a 12 year old." 

"I saw it in Minneapolis. On a double bill with 'Jason and the Argonauts.' I've been scared of sword fighting skeletons ever since," he smirked, then kissed his boyfriend to soften the weak poke further. Indicating the bagged scorpion, Gris said, "Well, I better move this titan to a new home so we can hit the road." 

Reluctantly Warrick let him go. "You gonna call the exterminators or am I?"  

Grissom's face stiffened. And Warrick, well, at least he had the decency to look a little sorry for asking his entomologist boyfriend to nuke some of god's beneficial creatures. But for once Grissom skipped the lecture.  

"Pesticides aren't a good option. I'll alert building maintenance to caulk up the cracks inside and out. In the meantime, you can tell Sanders I've got a new assignment for him." 

Yes. Oh, yes. That brought out the heart-stopping grin from his beautiful boyfriend.  

Now, any reasonable person might think that having to track down live, venomous scorpions in revenge for a gift of a mechanical tarantula was hardly fair. But no one ever accused Gil Grissom of fighting fair. 

****** 

The black Lexus soared out of Las Vegas on Tuesday, July 5th, at 8:00 a.m. sharp. Kept in purring prime by uber autojock Nick Stokes, the car flew its three passengers across Hoover Dam for a spectacular if brief view of Lake Mead, then down U.S. 93 to Interstate 40. Mesas and mountains, sagebrush and yuccas. In all directions. A short break for gas, water, and a men's room in Kingman, Arizona, and the three men were motoring again. 

A clear, cloudless, blue-white sky simmered overhead. Even though it was only 10 in the morning, the temperature gauge in the Lexus already read 92 degrees. A perfect day for fast driving on a four lane express-way with minimum traffic. The posted speed limit was 75. Of course, everyone ignored it. Especially Warrick.

 

"Man," Nick cocked his head, looking out the passenger window. "The desert kinda blurs into a light brown cream when you're going 100 m.p.h." 

"Wanna see it at 120?" Warrick grinned. 

"Nope. I wanna get to Dallas alive." 

Warrick's grin broadened. He wondered when "Mr. Obey the Speed Limit" was gonna start complaining. He pushed the speedometer up to 105, just to prove a point, then eased back down. He was feeling good. Really good. Driving fast, chilling to Amel Larrieux on the radio. Best friend beside him, boyfriend in the back seat. Yeah. Life was great. 

"So . . . when do I get to pick a station?" Nick groused. 

"Yeah. Dream on." Early on, Warrick and Gris had reached a compromise about the music: Nick was not allowed to get near the satellite radio.  

"C'mon, y'all, that ain't fair. There's good country music." 

"That's an oxymoron, man."   

Nick sat back with a huff. Yeah. That's good. So good to see Nicky showing something a little normal. The mottled fire ant blisters had finally healed. The residual pain in his joints had finally faded. The cuts, bruises, and scrapes had disappeared. But Nick still couldn't sleep more than a couple of hours at a stretch. Hell, even if Warrick hadn't spent most every midnight to 8 am on his best friend's couch for the last month, the dark stains under Nick's liquid brown eyes testified to that. 

Nick's mental equilibrium was shot. He'd swing from not caring at all to caring way too much; from lying around his apartment all day to working out all day at his gym. Not to mention he still flipped out in any crowded space. No way was Nick gonna squeeze himself onto a crowded metal bird to fly to Dallas. Not even for his parents' fiftieth wedding anniversary. And that's where Warrick and Gris came in.  

Warrick had posed the idea to his boyfriend--a major road trip to take Nick to Dallas. No protest, no hesitation, no second thoughts. Grissom set everything in motion. Yeah. Boyfriend gets what he wants when he really wants it. Even a week-long vacation for 3 CSIs at the same time. Even from Ecklie. 

Green eyes flicked to the rear view mirror, to the boyfriend in the backseat. Gris lounged sideways across the back of the Lexus, bed pillows cushioning his back against the car door. Looking edible in a dark chocolate colored short sleeve shirt and cream colored trousers.  
 

In between cat napping, checking out the scenery, and ignoring Nick and Warrick teasing each other, Grissom read a draft manuscript on forensic entomotoxicology. The effects of amphetamines and barbiturates in the larvae of the black blow fly, P. regina. He'd gotten it in the mail from some chick from Penn State, one of the many grad students he'd met at the workshop he'd conducted in Philadelphia earlier in the year. Damn. Warrick shook his head. As if getting quality time with his boyfriend wasn't hard enough, now he's gotta compete with grad students from all around the country. 

"Swallow something nasty there, pardner?" Nick asked. 

"What?" Warrick pulled his eyes away from the rear view mirror and back to the wide stretch of gray concrete and white stripes in front of him. 

"Looked for a second like you just sucked on a week-old oyster." 

Warrick coughed, "Damn, Tex, where do you pick up this shit?" 

Nick smirked and stretched and glanced out the side window. "Twenty miles to Seligman. A hundred twenty to Flagstaff." 

"And a thousand to Dallas. You good until we get to Flagstaff?" 

"Yeah. Plenty of wide open spaces. I'm not gonna have a panic attack out here, man." 

Damn. Nick could turn touchy at the most innocent question.  "I meant are you good on the bathroom breaks until we hit Flagstaff." 

"Oh." Nick swallowed then nodded. "Yeah, sorry, Rick." 

A shrug. "It's cool, man. Yo, baby?" he looked into the rear view mirror. "You need a pit stop?" 

Reflected blue eyes met green. "No." Gris worked his jaw a moment then suggested, "You know, when we reach Flagstaff, you could drop me off at the Museum of Northern Arizona while you two--" 

"Not a chance!" Warrick and Nick chorused. They laughed as Warrick watched Grissom's plump bottom lip slide forward. It slid forward only a minuscule amount, though. An amount that only Warrick could discern. 

"Baby, we ain't gonna lose 3 hours travel time tracking you down in a museum." 
 

A minute of nothing but Amel Larrieux's sweet voice and then, "Did you know that the Museum of Northern Arizona has one of the largest collections of human remains showing signs of cannibalism?" 

"Whoa, now," Nick said. 

"This is a perfect opportunity for me to study--" 

"You expecting to run into any cannibals, Gris?" Warrick grinned. 

"Well, you never know." 

"Are you talking cannibalism among Native Americans?" Nick cocked his head and glanced back at Grissom. "I thought that was still in dispute." 

"Well, Nick, if you'd read more and watch less television, you'd know that cannibalism among the Chaco Canyon Anasazi has been definitively proven." 

Ouch. Warrick sent his best friend a sympathetic glance. Nick's jaw clenched as an oblivious Grissom continued, "Bones split open and marrow extracted, cut and saw marks, burn marks, anvil abrasions. Bones broken to uniform length so that they'd fit into a standard-size pot. Bones with polished ends from being boiled in a pot." 

"Yeah, but," Nick tried once again. Warrick shook his head. Let it go, Nicky. "But that still doesn't mean the, uh, Anasazi--" 

"The Chaco Canyon Anasazi, Nick. Not all Anasazi." 

Nick rolled his eyes. "Okay. Still doesn't prove they ate their, uh, victims. It could be ritual mutilation or even some bizarre . . . burial practice." 

Warrick tried to catch Grissom's eye in the rear view mirror. To warn him to go easy on Nick. Damn. Gris had that look. He had that same look  when he was about to hammer in the last nail on an airtight case.  

"That might be a tenable position if anthropologists hadn't made one other discovery. At Ute Mountain in Colorado, they found abandoned kivas--traditional habitations of the Anasazi. In each kiva, they excavated human bones. Chopped, boiled, and burned. And in one, on top of a mound of bones and ashes, they found a clump of coprolite." 

"Coprolite?" Nick asked. 

"Petrified shit," Warrick supplied before Grissom could pounce on Nick for another hole in his learning. 
 

Grissom continued, "The anthopologists tested the coprolite for human myoglobin. It was positive. They also tested the interior walls of Anasazi cooking pots. Positive again. Occam's razor, Nick." 

"If you hear hoof beats, think horses not zebras," Nick grudgingly repeated one of his mentor's favorite sayings. 

"Precisely. So you can understand why I would like to visit the museum."   

"Look, Grissom, I'm--" 

"Why the hurry? Did something happen that you're not telling me?" 

Warrick scowled his best friend a warning not to spill the beans. 

"Uh, no, Gris, I, uh, just wanted to get to Dallas a little quicker, is all. Mom's got, uh, all the, uh,  relatives coming in and, uh . . . " he trailed off. 

"Nicky, you make a terrible liar," Grissom said. 

"Hey, now, I'm not--" 

"Look at me." Gris spoke quietly but there was no mistaking the command. 

Liquid brown eyes begged Warrick. "Dawg, you gotta tell him." 

Warrick grimaced as Gris leaned forward and placed a hand on the back of the driver-side  headrest. Oh, damn, that soft, silky voice. "Tell me what?" 

"It's supposed to be a surprise!" Warrick gulped, eyes locked straight ahead. 

"I thought we agreed," rumbled from the back seat. "No more surprises." A pause. "Did you put something in my suitcase?" 

"Did I--" Warrick wondered for a moment where that came from. Then he remembered. Little Ricky. The dildo that brought the Philadelphia airport to its knees. So to speak. "No!" 

"So . . . what's the surprise?" 

Instead of answering, Warrick turned to Nick. "What I get for having a boy scout as my best friend. All you had to do was a little bluffing, Mr. Straight Arrow." 

"Yeah? Well, there's a reason I'm always poker night's beer man. I can't bluff for shit." 

"You think listening to jazz is tough? Wait 'til we get opera boy in the back seat stirred up." 

Nick shrugged an apology as Grissom leaned even closer, lips inches away from Warrick's ear. "Anima?" 

A shivering sigh. "C'mon, baby. I'll tell you tonight. Promise." 

As his boyfriend considered the request, Warrick hoped Grissom's penchant for delayed gratification ran true. Yeah, it really wasn't a big deal, but, man, Gris was gonna be so surprised. More important, Gris was gonna be really grateful. Warrick shifted, slightly spreading his legs, thinking about how good sex with his baby was when he was really grateful. 

But his baby had other plans. "Tell me now." 

"Heh," Nick snorted. "Better tell him before he starts kickin' the seat." 

Uh oh. Judging by the stony look on Grissom's face, Nick's joke was not well received. Warrick decided to act fast, or the grateful sex might not be so great. 

"Okay, I really wanted to tell you tonight but since somebody can't tell even a little lie," and here he winked at Nick, "here it is, straight up: I got you a ticket to that Puccini opera you like so much. For tomorrow night." 

Green eyes flicked to the rear view mirror. His boyfriend's very kissable mouth had fallen open, stunned. "T-Turandot? You got me a ticket to Turandot? At the Santa Fe Opera? But . . . but this week was sold out. I phoned the box office. I checked eBay. I googled. I even called a ticket scalper." 

"Yeah, but, you don't have the connections I do." Hah. Smug. Yeah, Warrick had every right to be smug.  

"What connections?" 

"That's a family secret." 

"I thought I was one of the family, now," Gris sulked from the back seat. 

Huh. Well. Warrick never expected his boyfriend to claim that out loud. Cool.  

But Grissom's confession didn't mean Warrick wanted to give in too easily. "You know, Gris, if you didn't want to tell me something, wild horses couldn't--" 
 

"I wouldn't give you any reason to be suspicious in the first place," Grissom snapped, at his waspish best. "And I certainly wouldn't rely on Nicky as my cover." 

"Hey, now," Nick sputtered. 

Damn, Warrick's eyes widened. That was harsh. What was it with all the boyfriend's snapping on Nick? It was one thing for Nick and Warrick to go at each other. They'd done it for years, and they were best friends. They knew when they were just teasing. But Gris had a tendency to go for the jugular. Besides Nicky still saw Gris more as a boss than a friend. 

Warrick drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel. He started talking more because he didn't want Grissom picking on Nicky than for any real desire to tell Gris. 

"A'ight, Here's how it breaks down. Aunt Lucille is a regional manager of Nordstrom's--" 

"I know that." 

Narrowed eyes, pursed lips, but Warrick still held on to his temper. "She goes to fashion shows. Few years back, she hooked up with a guy named Jerome Marx, fabric wholeseller specializing in batik patterns and prints. He's married to K'Lisha. She's a seamstress. As a sideline, she helps out the costume designer at the Houston Grand Opera--" 

"Who knows the costume designer at Santa Fe," Grissom stated the obvious conclusion. 

"Nope. Strike one, baby," Warrick smirked. 

"Gettin' ahead of the evidence there, Gris," Nick got a little of his own back. 

A frosty silence out of the back seat, and then, "You're right. My apologies, gentlemen." 

Sharing a grin with his best friend, Warrick continued, "K'Lisha's brother--" 

"Whoa. Start over at the beginning," Nick drawled. "Somebody broke the chain of custody." 

Heh. Yeah. Things were definitely looking up if Nick was willing to take a poke at Grissom, feeble as it was.  

"A'ight. Aunt Lucille to Jerome Marx to K'Lisha Marx to K'Lisha's big brother who happens to be a judge in Harris County." 

"That's Harris County, Houston, Texas," Nick clarified. Unnecessarily, judging by the narrowed blue eyes reflected in the rear view mirror. 

"Anyhoo, Judge Maxwell is a big fan of opera." 

"And a big ol' contributor to the Houston Grand," Nick added, obviously trying to draw Gris out into another leap down the chain of custody. But he'd learned his lesson and kept quiet. 

"Yeah, so, Judge Maxwell goes to a meeting of the County Judges and Commissioners Association, and who does he run into? Judge Reynaldo Garza of Dallas County. Season ticket holder, Santa Fe Opera. Only Judge Garza's flying back to Dallas 'cause his pops is having emergency surgery. And the Judge ain't gonna let a $250 ticket go to waste." 

"Funny thing is," Nick murmured. "Judge Garza works just down the hall from my daddy." 

"Small world," Warrick exchanged grins with his best friend and then trumpeted in his best mock pompous voice, "In summary, Dr. Grissom, that ticket moved through channels from Judge Garza to Judge Maxwell to K'Lisha Marx to Jerome Marx to Aunt Lucille to me to you." And then Warrick's voice softened. "'Cause I love you, baby."  

He smiled into the rear view mirror. He got an embarrassed, but sincere smile back. 

"Thanks." 

Warrick nodded and watched Gris settle back into his pillows and into his dissertation. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Nick's face. Only with years of practice could you even start to  guess what Gris was thinking, but Nick . . . Nick was as wide open as the Arizona sky. Yeah. Nick was thinking, "That's it? That's all Rick's gonna get? 'Thanks'? For all that work?" Warrick shook his head. Yeah, Nicky, that's all I'll get. But that's all I need. Until tonight. 

****** 

They climbed up to the Colorado Plateau, scrub desert and stunted grasses slowly giving way to lush high pine forests. An early lunch in Flagstaff at San Felipe's Cantina. That and the clean, cool 70 degree mountain air refreshed them. Bantering over who would drive, although they all knew Warrick would never willingly surrender the wheel, they piled back into the Lexus and resumed their same places: Nick riding shotgun, Gris lounging in the backseat.  

They made one change, though. Warrick and Gris let Nick pick a radio station. And with only two caveats: no country music and no more than one hour. They wound up with the hits of the 1970s.  

"Hotel California," Nick sat back with a grin. 

"If I hear 'Muskrat Love,' I'm driving us over a cliff," Warrick warned. 

"Hey, man, don't hate. The Eagles rock." 
 

"Yeah. Like a flat tire rolls." 

"C'mon, now." 

Warrick's laugh resulted in a playful punch to his arm. Then Nick laughed, too. The Eagles gave way to Rod Stewart who gave way to the Bee Gees who gave way to Donna Summer. The three men in the Lexus lazed well fed, content to take in the beauty of dark green pine trees and white tipped San Francisco Peaks, all starkly beautiful against the clear blue sky. 

It was about 30 minutes out of Flagstaff when--  

"Smokin' in the boys room," said the voice in the back seat. 

Warrick exchanged a confused glance with Nick. "What was that, baby?" 

"Junior year. 1973. My last in high school. It was our class song. 'Smokin' in the Boys Room.' " 

"Is that so?" 

"Yes." A considered pause and then, "I voted for 'Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road.' It had the word 'olfactory' in it."  

"Huh. That because there wasn't a song with 'cannibalism' in it?" Warrick jabbed. 

He peeked to his right where Nick had bitten his lower lip to keep from sniggering. And then, as if on cue, a pungent whiff filtered in through the air conditioner.  

"Hoo," Warrick's eyes began to water. "Smells like somebody just cut a remake!" 

Nick lost his grip on his lower lip. With tears in his eyes, giggles welling up, he choked, "Dang! That'd tickle even Doc Robbins's olfactory! How--how does the song go, Gris?" 

And to everyone's surprise, Grissom sang it. Off-key but with great enthusiasm.  

By the time he repeated the chorus for the third time, Warrick and Nick chimed in: 

You got yer

Dead skunk in the middle of the road

Dead skunk in the middle of the road

You got yer dead skunk in the middle of the road

Stinkin' to high Heaven! 

****** 

All too soon, they left mountain greenery and rolled back down to the desert, following I-40 as it skirted the southwest corner of the Navajo Indian reservation. They zoomed past Standin' on a Corner in Winslow, Arizona, crossed the Little Colorado River, barreled in to Holbrook.  

Warrick made a concession to his baby's pleas and detoured to the Wigwam Hotel, a Route 66 landmark. Fifteen concrete and stucco structures modeled on Plains Indian tipis evenly spaced around a modern parking lot. To Warrick the hotel looked more like fifteen gigantic, decorated ice cream cones turned upside down and settled onto a hard pink brown counter.  

But these ice cream cones managed not to melt. Couldn't say the same for the rest of the world.

A 95 degree heat seared off white stucco and bright steel and bubbling asphalt. Even the cactus had given up hope. But Grissom ignored all that. Charmed, he wandered around the "campsite" studying the fake tipis. Meanwhile Nick and Warrick stood sipping bottled water in the hot shade of the car port just outside the motel's office.  

"You ever play Cowboys and Indians growin' up?" Nick asked. 

"Naw, man. Star Wars all the way." 

"Yeah? Who were you?" 

Warrick dug deep into his memory. "Han Solo. Until I came up with my own creation: Prince Allegro, Jedi Knight." 

"Prince Allegro?" Nick scoffed. 

"Hey, I was taking piano lessons at the time." Warrick watched Gris get distracted by something in a scraggly bush at the back of the motel before continuing, "Whole neighborhood would play. Next door neighbor was Luke Skywalker. Girl down the block was Princess Leia. Chris was Lando. Weird kid on the corner was Yoda." A wicked grin. "She didn't know it, but Aunt Shirley was Darth Vader." 

"Heh. Man, my oldest sister Lisa loved to play Vader. She'd beat the crap out of the rest of us with that red plastic light saber." 

They silently revisited childhood memories of epic Death Star battles, watched Gris follow a lizard to its den, finished their water bottles.  

Warrick was just about to reel Grissom back in when Nick said, "You ever wonder if any group of people can ever live without . . . doing horrible things to each other?" 
 

Studying his best friend, the sleepless pallor, the clenched jaw, Warrick debated whether he should tell Nick the hard truth or soften it into something easier to hear but easier to ignore. What was it Emerson said about truth? That it was one of the two elements of friendship? No surprise, then, that Warrick settled for the truth.  

"Cain and Abel, Nick. Don't matter if it's the first men or the last men, always gonna be trouble. Even if every person on earth had all that they needed, somebody would still want more. Somebody would still get pissed. Somebody would still like to hurt somebody else just for fun." 

Warrick watched Nick swallow, his expressive eyes cloud over. Probably reliving his time underground. Damn. 

"Nick," Warrick put his large hand on his best friend's arm. "I got ya, buddy." 

Powerful muscles shivered then eventually relaxed. A deep, deep sigh and a fragile smile, but Warrick didn't let go. He stood shoulder to shoulder with his best friend in a hard, rocky land, giving strength, understanding, and hope. 

"Thanks, man," Nick said at last. A big breath and then a big grin. "Think we better grab Gris and get goin'?" 

"You sure?" 

"Yeah," Nick nodded. "God knows if we don't, Grissom'll find some nasty critter we'll have ridin' with us all the way to Dallas and back." 

Warrick grinned. "And the one thing we don't need is another nasty critter ridin' in the back seat." 

Their laughter made an unsuspecting Grissom look up from his bug hunting and smile. 

****** 

Despite Grissom's forlorn sighs, they blew past the entrances to the Petrified Forest and the Rainbow Forest, the roads leading to Hubbell Trading Post and Canyon de Chelly. All that lay between the Lexus and Albuquerque was close to 250 miles of unremarkable landscape, sky, and concrete.  

Ever since Holbrook, Nick had seemed disinclined to talk. Even Gris had given up wheedling for roadside scientific explorations and lapsed into silence in the back seat. Warrick was running out of things to keep himself entertained. And awake. Even listening to the radio had grown stale. When a man found himself looking forward to road construction to fight boredom, it was time to take action.  

"Thirty miles to the New Mexico state line," he sighed. "Where 3:00 o'clock jumps to 5:00." 
 

A few beats, then Nick at last roused from watching the rocky monotony out the passenger window. "Arizona's always gotta be contrary. Even with daylight savings." 

"Yep. Heh. Last time I lost two hours so fast I was listenin' to Alicia." 

"That must've been some concert," Nick lazily scratched his upper arm. "You ain't been talking about much else for the last month." 

"Best concert evah, my man! From the opening to the closing number, the lady mesmerized us. Girl can play her some serious keyboard." 

"Cool. Um, what did Grissom think?" 

"He's in the back seat. Why don't you ask him?" 

Glancing over his shoulder, Nick murmured, "I think he's asleep." 

"Yeah?" Green eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. Sure enough, Grissom's chin rested on his chest. Blue eyes closed, pink lips parted. Warrick turned down the radio. Jason Moran's jazzy blues funk faded away. Sure enough, soft snores drifted from the back seat. 

A grin shared between best friends, then Warrick said, "Good. I want him rested up for tonight." 

"Why?" Nick whispered. When Warrick's grin widened, Nick blurted, "No, never mind. Don't need to know." 

"Heh. Yeah? You always want to know when a woman's involved." 

"Completely different, man. Completely. Different." Nick shifted in his seat, "Besides, I want to know about your women 'cause when they finally come to their senses and dump you, I have a fully informed opportunity." 

A shocked silence. "You're shittin' me." 

"Nope. Remember M-m-marilyn?" 

"Get outta here!" 

"True story." 

Warrick gripped the steering wheel as if it had suddenly transformed into a golden snitch. He opened his mouth, closed it, finally came out with, "Anybody else?" 
 

"The truth?" 

What do you think, he stared. 

A sly grin and twinkling dark eyes. "Only in my dreams, Rick." 

"Damn, boy. Give a brother a heart attack, why don't ya?" 

The sly grin grew brighter. "See? I can bluff when I want to. Just not with--" Nick inclined his head in the direction of the soft snores. 

"Sorry, man. He's being a jerk." 

Nick shrugged, turned away, stared out at the blurry brown landscape. "Forty miles to Gallup." 

"I'll talk to him tonight." 

Dark eyes snapped back. "Don't, man. I'm not . . . it's not worth it. Let it go." 

Warrick silently appraised his best friend, wounded and hurting, trying his best not to show either. Making Warrick even more determined to force Gris to back off. "Sure, buddy. Whatever you say." 

Nick nodded his head in gratitude then cleared his throat, "So . . . we were talking about you and your high maintenance women." 

"High maintenance?!" 

"You know what I'm talkin' about: dancing, dining, dangerously expensive gifts. Shoulda seen M-m-marilyn's face when I suggested pizza and a movie at my place." 

"Her loss, man."  

Nick merely shrugged and turned back to the vacant wilderness outside the passenger side window. Seconds ticked by. Then minutes. Damn. But Warrick let his best friend alone and concentrated on driving as miles of silence flew by. Silence except for the soft snores from the back seat and whining tires on baking concrete. Until the sameness got to be too much. 

"Sooooo," he said. "So tell me. Is Sofia high maintenance?" 

Nick looked surprised. "Naw, man, she's, uh, she's definitely self-sufficient." 

"And?" 
 

"And what?" 

"Turn about's fair play, man. I tell you about my women, you tell me--" 

"Tell you about Sofia?" Puzzled, Nick turned head and shoulders to face his best friend. "Tell you what? You know her." 

Warrick snorted. "Not like you know her." 

"Huh?" 

"Yeah, right. You play the clueless card almost as good as Gris. What? I gotta spell this out for ya, man?" 

"I guess you do," Nick shifted uncomfortably. 

"A'ight. I will." Warrick grinned slyly and sotto voce said, "What's she like in bed?" 

"Oh," Nick blew out a nervous breath and glanced behind him. Reassured, he settled back into his seat. "I get ya. You know, bro', a gentleman never tells." 

"Hah. And now you're a gentleman?" 

"Born and bred, dawg. Born and bred." 

"Yeah. Picture that. Like you've never bragged to me about who you did and how you did her." 

"About some chippy, maybe. But not about somebody we both know. That's just wrong." 

"Uh huh." Warrick let Nick off the hook. Back to whining tires and soft snores. Warrick would be snoring, too, if this went on much longer. When the Lexus finally crossed the state line into New Mexico, he could stand it no longer. 

"She was really that bad, huh?" 

Nick shook his head but couldn't keep the blush from his cheeks, "You ain't gonna trip me up that easy, Ricky-boy." 

"She just lies there?" 

The blush deepened. "There's an expectation of privacy here!" 

"She's as cold as the evidence locker?" 
 

"That's just pathetic, man." 

"Heh." Warrick glanced side-long at Nick. "Not a natural blonde?" 

Sputtering, Nick said, "Like that," and here he chose his words carefully, "would matter." 

"Not enough left down there to tell?" 

"Give it up, dawg!" 

"She wanted to be on top . . . and you couldn't get it up for that?" 

"Hey, man, now wait just a . . . a . . ." 

Warrick wondered if he'd gone too far. There was teasing, and then there was hurting. Nick seemed genuinely angry but thankfully only for a moment. 

"Tell you what, man," Nick said. "Let's just say there was nothin' cold about her. She was up for anything." And at the knowing grin on Warrick's face, Nick added, "And so was I, smart ass." 

"Heh. Yeah? Anything?" 

"Anything. Hell, man, she even likes what you like." 

"Really?" Warrick had him. "And just what do I like, Nick?" 

The blush galloped from Nick's cheeks to his forehead and throat. "Um . . . I mean . . . uh . . . well . . . you know." 

"Come on, Nicky. What do I like? Cock sucking or butt fucking?" 

"Shit, Warrick!" Nick twisted around to check that Gris was still securely in beddy-bye land. Evidently so, because Nick took a deep breath and admitted, "She . . . she . . . uh . . . well . . . yeah." 

Poor Nicky. He could never ignore his buddy much less lie to him. 

Warrick clamped his jaw around explosive laughter. His eyes watered, his body trembled with the effort. But he didn't want to wake up Grissom. Man, Nick did not deserve that. 

Thumbing his eyes clear, Warrick panted through clenched teeth, "Oh, man! Oh, baby!" 

"Asshole," Nick muttered. 

"So," Warrick struggled, trying to regain control of his breathing. "So." A deep breath and then another. One more, and at last he was ready. 

"So . . .Your butt or hers?" 

"Oh, Jesus, man, Jesus," Nick hissed. Oh, yeah. Warrick had hit on the one thing that could bring Nick to life. "Jesus, Rick, hers! Her butt, okay?! 

"Sweet," Warrick chortled. "Sweet." 

"Oh, Jesus." 

"Think she'd give it up to me, knowing that I like it so much? You know, if she lies face down, I could even imagine--" 

"That's enough, man!" Nick's whisper was serious. Very serious. Unmistakenly serious. "And if you say a word to her . . . If you say one word, man, you gonna need to borrow somebody's else's balls before you can do anything to anyone ever again!" 

Uh oh. Well. Sometimes you roll the dice one time too many. But Warrick was too cool to let anybody know it. 

"Relax, bro'. Relax. I'm not gonna say anything. Just messin' with ya. Besides, looks like I'm never gonna see her again much less talk to her. Now that she's gone to Boulder City." 

Nick turned away, mouth set in a hard line, jaw tense and unyielding. Silence but for the tires and snores. Yeah, thank god for the snores. Meant Gris was still asleep. Man, boyfriend barely tolerated locker room banter when women he didn't know were involved. When Warrick joked about making it with women Gris did know, the man took pouting to a whole other level.  

When they reached the fifteen mile marker to Gallup, Warrick finally asked, "Truce?" 

An irritated sigh, but Nick relented. "Yeah, man. Truce." 

Warrick nodded. "One question, though? Not about sex." 

Dark eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Not about sex?" 

"No." 

A long pause. "Okay. One question." Nick jabbed his finger at Warrick. "Just the one, now." 

"Nicky, don't take this wrong, but how did you let a fine, game lady like that get away?" 

His best friend looked down and away and didn't answer. Damn. Always gotta roll that dice one more time, don't ya, Brown? 

"I guess . . ." Nick's soft voice colored by a heavy Texas accent. A sure sign he was under stress. "I guess . . . you know . . . you keep pushin' somebody away . . . eventually . . . they go away." 

"So you broke up with her?" 

A deep breath. Nick stared out the window. "You're the only one who can touch me, Rick. The only one." Another breath. "Anybody else, I . . . lose it. Literally." He swallowed. "Sofia . . . Sofia forgot. Your anniversary party. She touched me on the shoulder." 

"And that's why I found you throwing up in the bathroom?" 

"Yeah." Wounded dark eyes swung around to Warrick. "Would you stay with a man who can't stand for you to touch him? Who dreads the idea you might slip up? Try to hold him? Kiss him? Touch him on the shoulder?"  

"Damn, Nick," Warrick said, confused and frightened at what he'd provoked. "Damn, I didn't know." 

"It was better for her she left. Better for both of us. I didn't know she'd leave CSI, leave Vegas, but it was better for both of us." 

Why hadn't Nick said anything? Why hadn't Warrick figured it out? He blew out a deep breath. "You tell all this to Dr. Kane?" 

A dismissive snort. "Sure. For all the good it'll do. Only reason I'm goin' to him is so I can get back to work. Hell, I'd go to a Voodoo Queen if it would get me back to work. Same difference." 

"Nick--" Warrick shook his head. Sorrow for what his best friend had endured. Anger that it had been Nick who'd had to endure it. 

"I go to a psychiatrist." 

Green eyes widened and exchanged a frightened look with dark brown eyes. Oh, shit. How much had Gris heard? 

And then Warrick realized what Gris had said. Was Gil Grissom about to reveal something personal about himself? To Nick?! 

"Dr. Golden," Grissom added. "He helps me manage my emotions." 
 

Out of the corner of his eye, Warrick watched Nick swallow and tense. Watched him grip his thighs. As if preparing for another put down from Grissom? Oh, baby, don't, please. 

"Gris," Warrick warned, but he was ignored. 

"It's important to have an incentive, Nick. Yours is work." A slight pause. "Mine is Warrick." 

Warrick's jaw dropped, hands grew slack on the wheel. He stared sightlessly at the road. Slowly he blinked back surprise. Gris had never . . . Not in public . . . Warrick risked a glance at Nick who still stared straight ahead but had at least relaxed his hands. 

"Even with an incentive, the sessions won't help. Not until . . ." Grissom paused and then began again, "In the beginning, I thought the sessions were useless. It wasn't until I admitted to myself that I needed help that the help . . . helped." 

Still stunned, Warrick could only watch Nick. His dark eyes glinted with unshed tears. At last he choked, "I . . . thanks. Thanks, Gris."  

Pride swelled in Warrick's chest. Amazing that his boyfriend would share something so intimate about himself. Something that would mean so much to Nick. And most amazing of all, Gris had just admitted that he'd done it because of his love for Warrick. 

Somehow the dreary landscape now seemed beautiful. The sound of speeding tires on concrete seemed musical. Everything . . . everything was perfect.  

They had just reached the Gallup city limits when a silky voice murmured from the back seat, "Anima?" 

"Yeah, baby." Green eyes met the reflection of mischievous blue. Very mischievous, yet very serious, too. Eye brows raised, Warrick waited for his boyfriend to speak again. 

"Anima," Grissom leaned forward, soft lips purring into a caramel colored ear. "If you ever cock suck or butt fuck anyone besides me, you'll need to borrow more than balls." 

Yeah. It was funny. But the only one in the car laughing was Nicky. 

****** 

"Stop the car! Stop the car!" 

Warrick slammed on the brake. They were still in Gallup. They'd just filled up the Lexus, were just about to pull out of the gas station, and here was Nicky screaming, unbuckling his seat belt, and yanking open his door.   
 

"What's wrong?!" Warrick yelled, watching  his best friend jump out the door, leaving it wide open as he sprinted toward the mouth of an alley down the block and across the street.  

"What is it?" Gris asked as Warrick threw the car into park and made to follow Nick. 

"Don't know, baby," he said as he sprang from the car. "Be right back. Nick!"  

As he raced for the alley, Warrick wondered what the hell he was doing, chasing after his best friend. He never would have before. When had Nick changed in Warrick's eyes? Changed from the stable, reliable, competent best friend into someone who always needed rescuing? 

When he was half-way across the street, Warrick heard Nick shout, "No! Come here, boy, come here!" And then a blur of brown and white fur burst out of the alley. 

"Stop him!" Nick yelled. 

Ears flopping, tail slashing, the frightened dog spied Warrick closing to intercept. A quick tack, and the dog dashed around Warrick, just out of reach. Not a pit bull but some breed with a broad chest and square head, bleeding from nicks and cuts.  

"Dammit!" he huffed, stumbled, then noticed that the dog was galloping down the block and straight for the Lexus. Two doors open and Grissom in the back seat. 

"Fuck! Gris!" Warrick charged after. The dog could be wild or rabid or both! 

Behind him he could hear Nick's rapid steps. The two men sprinted all out.  

"Gris!" Warrick yelled again. "Watch out!"  

But no movement in the back seat. Damn, boyfriend was probably reading again, heedless to the commotion in the outside world. 

"Grissom!" Nick hollared as Warrick willed the dog over, under, or around the Lexus. Anywhere but inside. But the animal paid no mind and leapt straight into the car then vaulted into the back seat. 

"Shit!" Warrick and Nick shouted. Jetting like never before, Warrick beat Nick to the Lexus. 

"Baby?!" he yanked open the back door. Torn paper from the dissertation spilled out onto the pavement. The dog was all over Gris. That's all Warrick could see. He didn't stop to think that Grissom wasn't screaming in pain or hitting the animal. All Warrick could see was a potentially deadly animal on top of his lover. Warrick's large hands grabbed the dog by the scruff and yanked. 
 

The dog squealed. 

"Warrick! Anima! It's all right," Gris was saying as Warrick hauled the dog out of the car. "I'm fine. It's all right!" 

Warrick held the yelping dog tight and gave his boyfriend the once over. Glasses askew, paw prints on his shirt and pants, scratches on his forearms, drool and mud and blood smeared over hair and beard and throat, face flushed but relieved. 

"You sure you're okay?" 

"Yes." Grissom scooted out of the back seat, scattering ripped pages everywhere. "I'm fine." 

"Please, Rick. Let the dog go," Nick pleaded, kneeling at Warrick's feet, encircling the dog with gentle arms. "Please." 

A long look, then Warrick at last released his powerful grip. The dog whimpered into Nick's arms. Damn. A couple of battered refugees huddled on the baking pavement.  

"I think he's a boxer," Nick panted. "And young." Studying the mutt's face, Nick rubbed calming circles along the animal's jaw, neck, and shoulders.  

Warrick felt like he could use some calming circles, too. Somehow he refrained from ripping Nick a new one and instead took a deep breath. "You wanna tell me what the hell you thought you were doing, buddy?" 

Nick buried his face in the panting dog's fur. A few seconds passed and then he said, "I saw kids. Throwing rocks, waving sticks, chasing this poor guy. I . . . I couldn't face it. Not today." 

Damn. Warrick glanced at Gris who shrugged uncomfortably. With a shake of his head, Warrick reached down and patted Nick's shoulder. And debated what to do. 

"The Rewards of Cruelty," Gris intoned. 

At Warrick's questioning look, his boyfriend continued, "A series of engravings by William Hogarth. He hoped they would prevent cruelty to animals. Eighteenth century London was horrific. For man and beast. One engraving shows surgeons carving up an executed criminal with as little tenderness as the criminal used to carve up animals." 

Damn. When emotions got too rough, Grissom still tended to take refuge in a quotation or esoterica. Looked like Warrick had three refugees on his hands. 

Sighing, he drew out his cell phone.  
 

"Who are you calling?" Gris asked. 

"Gonna see if I can track down a local vet." 

"We're just gonna get him checked out, right?" Liquid dark eyes raised quickly from the brown fur.  

Surprised, Warrick reassured his best friend, "Well . . . yeah." 

"It's not right to put a dog down in his prime." Nick scratched the dog around his neck and chest. The dog wiggled with pleasure. "Let's take him with us.  Mom and Dad are always takin' in strays. A consequence of country living. This boy'll fit right in." 

Warrick took in the animal's many cuts and bruises. "Dog could be diseased. No collar, no tags." 

"He doesn't act sick. Eyes are clear. Nose is wet. He's just banged up." 

"He could be somebody's dog, Nick." 

"Well, they don't deserve to have him if they can't take care of him."  

Green eyes turned to blue. "Gris? Help me out here."  

His boyfriend shrugged and said simply, "I like dogs."  

With no help from that quarter, Warrick knelt down. "Nick," he began, about to detail all the reasons why transporting a forty pound, half-grown, ugly-ass cousin to a boxer half-way across country in a passenger car wasn't a good idea. But the wounded, thread-bare hopeful look on his best friend's face stopped him. 

He sighed again. "Okay. Well. At the very least, we gotta clean him up. I ain't lettin' this mangy hound back in my Lexus." 

"Thanks, man," Nick nodded, petting the squirming dog and looking like he'd just won the lottery. 

While Nick patted and good-boyed the dog, while the dog stretched out in the shade of the Lexus, and while Grissom gathered up the shreds of the dissertation he'd been reading, Warrick contacted directory assistance for Gallup. Fifteen minutes before he finally tracked down the one vet in town. And, wouldn't you know it, she was out looking after a sick pony in Sheep Springs. 

"Dammit." Hands on his hips, Warrick surveyed his passengers and wondered what to do.  
 

Closing the trunk lid after stuffing the remains of the dissertation inside, Grissom announced, "Wal-Mart." 

"Wal-Mart?" 

Blue eyes glowing, Gris said, "Where else are we going to find a tub, a bowl, tea tree oil, pyrethrin, pet shampoo, towels, gauze, Betadine, a flea comb, a dog brush, not to mention a baby thermometer, an oral syringe, rubber gloves, and K-Y Jelly at this time of day?"  

"You're not gonna draw his blood!" Nick protested. 

At Grissom's offended look, Warrick grinned and shook his head. He glanced down at the dog whose floppy ears perked up, large tongue curled out over his snout, large thread of drool spooled over his jaw. "Mutt, you are about to be MacGyvered. May heaven have mercy on your soul." 

****** 

In the shade of an abandoned do-it-yourself car wash, Gris and Nick set out a brand new plastic tub, filled it with jugs of store-bought water--plus one very surprised pup--and gently worked up a collar of shampoo lather around the boxer's neck. 

"This way the fleas won't flee to the head," Grissom smirked. 

Nick, a dog owner all his life, wisely kept quiet. He held the boxer still with his left hand while he flea combed the boxer's head with his right. 

Meanwhile, Warrick cleaned the Lexus. He wiped up, scraped up and scrubbed up drool, dirt, blood, and dog hair from every surface. Not that it made a difference. Soon as the dog got back in the car, it was gonna be filthy again. Damn. Dogs and fine automobiles simply do not mix.  

"You know I'm making a major sacrifice, here!" he complained once again, jamming dirty paper towels into a plastic Wal-Mart bag.  

But once again Gris and Nick ignored him. They continued shampooing and combing the mutt.  

Blowing out an irritated breath, Warrick watched as Grissom rocked to his feet then slowly poured a jug of clean water over the dog. As the water cascaded, Nicky carded through the mutt's coat, rinsing it free of suds, blood, flea dirt, and lord knows what else.  

Both men were about as wet as the dog. Before the bath, both had changed into t-shirts, shorts, and flip flops. Nick had packed his own. Grissom had bought what he could find at Wal-Mart.  
 

And for a moment, Warrick forgot his irritation. Nothing like seeing his baby in a cheap white t-shirt, soaked to transparency, clinging to hardened pecs and biceps, stretching tight over a hard if roundish belly. Damn, Warrick swallowed. Then he noticed a pair of stiff, rose brown nipples peaking through the thin t-shirt as if in invitation. Double damn. He turned back to the Lexus before he added his own drool to the dog's.  

Several minutes of wiping, dusting, and brushing later, Warrick heard Grissom say, "Nick, you shave with an electric razor, right?" 

"Uh, yyyeah?" 

"Get it. Set the blade to its highest setting." 

Huh, Warrick shivered. Yeah, Grissom was in full command mode. Warrick glanced over to where his boyfriend was toweling off the dog. Even the pooch was behaving himself.  

"Warrick?" 

He left off brushing out the floor board carpet and frowned. "Yeah." 

"Bring me the K-Y Jelly and rubber gloves." 

"Can't you wait until tonight, baby?" Warrick snarked, shaking out the new whisk broom in the desert breeze. 

Narrowed blue eyes. "The faster you bring me what I ask for, the faster we get on the road. And maybe there'll be a tonight. Baby." 

"Oooo, snap!" Nick said from behind the trunk lid. Yeah. That really helped Warrick's mood. 

"Bring a bowl, the Betadine, the syringe, and the gauze while you're at it," Grissom directed. "And the baby thermometer." 

"And the partridge in the pear tree," Warrick grumbled as he sorted through the bags of all the crap they'd bought. Dog bowls, dog food, dog biscuits. Jesus. Bedding, harness, collar, leash. Who gives up a whole day's salary to a four-legged drool factory? Rawhide bone, chew toy, rubber ball. Cotton towels. Paper towels. Dammit. More paper towels. Dramamine. Shit. Of course, everything he was looking for was in the last bag. 

He stomped back to Gris at the same time as Nick. 
 

"Hold the dog, Nicky," Grissom commanded, grabbing the electric razor. He snatched the bag from Warrick then pitched him the bowl, Betadine, and oral syringe. "Betadine and water in the bowl. Just enough Betadine to give the water a pale tint. Then fill the syringe." 

Warrick rolled his eyes but did as he was told. Generous mouth pressed into a thin line, he glared as Grissom pulled on rubber dishwashing gloves, opened the K-Y, and smeared it liberally over the major gashes on the boxer. The pooch seemed as surprised as Nick and Warrick. 

"Keeps clipped hair from settling into the wounds," Gris explained. Once he had all the cuts covered, he picked up the razor. "Hold him still." 

Grissom shaved the hair surrounding each wound. Half a dozen patches of stubble, K-Y, and loose hair. The dog stood wide-eyed and suspicious but didn't move. Not even when Gris wiped the remaining gunk away with gauze pads. 

"Syringe and paper towel."  

Warrick slapped over both and stood disgusted as his boyfriend rinsed the wounds. It took a couple of refills before Gris was satisfied. He let Nick pat the wounds dry. 

"We'll clean the lacerations again tomorrow morning," Gris said. "But this should hold him until we get him to a vet." Then he ripped the electric baby thermometer free of its packaging, coated the end with more K-Y, and grabbed the dog's tail. Warrick decided it was time to start cleaning up. Before Gris decided to stick that thermometer anywhere else. 

A puzzled and startled whine from the dog, and Warrick got busy dumping sudsy gray water out of the tub and into the car wash drain. He stacked the empty water jugs inside the tub then added the soaked cotton towels. 

Just before he hauled the mess over to a dumpster, Nick tossed his electric razor on top. Yeah. No amount of cleaning would have made Warrick shave with it again, either. No doubt some  dumpster diver was gonna be happy tonight, though. 

"A hundred and one," Gris announced at last, holding the baby thermometer up proudly. "Well within the normal temp range for a canine. I think this good boy deserves a treat, don't you, Nick?" 

"I think we all deserve a treat," Warrick muttered loudly as Nick dug around for the dog biscuits.  

Warrick snatched up the trash they'd made, mashing it ruthlessly into one of the empty Wal-Mart bags. As he bent over to pick up the packaging from the baby thermometer, he heard soft footsteps behind him. 

"Warrick?" 
 

"What?" he sulked, refusing to look around, shoving the packaging deep inside the bag. 

"They say a dog is man's best friend," his boyfriend said. "But, anima, you're the best friend a man could ever have." And then Grissom's footsteps padded away. 

Damn. Just when a man's worked up a lung full of offended righteousness, somebody comes along and knocks it right out. 

Neither the smell of wet dog, nor the cloud of canine hair, hell, not even the pools of drool bothered Warrick a bit as he drove the last two hours into Albuquerque. 

****** 

"Where you at?" Warrick said into his cell phone. 

"Still in the park, man," Nick's voice floated into Warrick's ear. 

"How long's that dog gotta look before he pees?"  

"By now, I think he's just lookin' for someplace he ain't peed yet. How much longer y'all gonna be? Hank's Eukanuba is startin' to look mighty tasty." 

"Be strong, my man. We on our way." Warrick snapped his cell phone shut.  

Warrick and Grissom were winding their way down Central Avenue in downtown Albuquerque after an excellent dinner of churrasco at Tucanos Brazilian Grill. The recycled paper bag holding take-out for Nick swung from Warrick's large fist. 

"Hank?" Grissom asked, looking up from a local gallery's display of polished geodes. 

Warrick shrugged, "Some cowboy Nick thang. Hank the Cowdog." 

"Ah." Blue eyes gazed back down at the seductive stones: purple amethyst, deep blue agate, pink quartz. "Children's books. Hank the Cowdog, head of ranch security. A detective of sorts." 

"Yeah? He got any forensicating buddies?"  

Gris shook his head. "Not unless you count the buzzards. They're the only ones in the stories who care about dead bodies." 

"And not for the same reasons we do." 

"No." 

With a smile, Warrick brushed his boyfriend's elbow then strolled slowly away so that Gris could easily catch up. It was a beautiful night. Temperature in the low eighties, just a hint of a breeze. Central Avenue wasn't too crowded on a Tuesday at ten o'clock at night. The bars lining the avenue were all open, though, blaring rock, blues, and country into the toasty street.  

But that was all right. Yeah. For the first time in a long time, he was out for a walk with his baby. Leisurely out for a walk. Interesting sights to see. Interesting sounds to hear. No pressures. No hassles. Most important, no dead bodies. 

They were headed back to their hotel, Hotel Blue, on the outskirts of downtown Albuquerque. The hotel was old-style southwest with rooms that opened directly out onto concrete walkways and the outdoors. The new owners were slowly renovating: new paint, new fixtures, and new mattresses. But the best things about Hotel Blue? Not only did it allow pets, but it stood right next to a small city park. 

"Gris," Warrick called back to his boyfriend. "We really need to get Nick his dinner before it gets much colder." 

With a guilty smile, Grissom left off lusting after geodes and quick stepped to catch up with Warrick. 

"Sorry." 

"S'okay. We don't get to do this too often. Take our time." 

A deep and satisfied breath. "No. We don't." Gris craned his head at the architecture of Central Avenue, a part of old Route 66. Still brick. Still a hint of art deco. "I like this city. It's got a different feel to it." 

"Yeah. I feel ya. Albuquerque's an old place. Old and wise." At his boyfriend's quirked eyebrow, Warrick said, "Some places run deep. They have old souls." 

Blue eyes sparkled. "That's . . . a good description." 

They walked a few blocks in silence, then objects in one of the many galleries lining the avenue caught Warrick's eye. He stepped closer to the window. Among stained glass wall hangings, clay pots, ceramic tiles, and ubiquitous kachina dolls and turquoise jewelry, were twelve laughing figures. Each about six inches tall, the clay men and women sat barefoot on sculpted cushions, captured in a moment of pure happiness--eyes alight, mouths curled in laughter, bodies leaning toward each other. Gossiping or joking or both. The figures depicted weren't young. The men had lost some hair, the women some teeth. All had gained wrinkles and pounds. But they all looked as if they'd led rich, full lives. Lives full of stories.  
 

At the back, two male figures, one white and one black, were grouped together as a pair. Obviously sharing a joke. 

"Think we'll look like that in a few years?" 

Grissom pulled on his glasses, studied the two figures for a moment, then said, "I'll still have all my hair."  

Warrick barked a laugh and threw his arm around his boyfriend's shoulders. And Warrick kept his arm resting across broad shoulders all the way back to Hotel Blue. It was a rare public display of affection. For either of them. But for some reason, in this city, Warrick felt entirely at ease. And at some point along the way, Gris had even sneaked his hand onto Warrick's hip.  

"Why don't you go on up," Warrick said as they reached the corner across from the park. His voice more suggestive than suggesting. 

"You're sure you're not too tired?" 

"I'm tired of driving, baby, not fucking."  

The look on Grissom's scandalized face was priceless. 

Warrick laughed and started to cross the street. "I'll be right with ya."  

"You won't be long?" Gris asked. 

The solemn, hesitant tone made Warrick stop mid-step. "No. I'll be right there." 

Graying eyebrows drawn, his handsome boyfriend nodded, chewed on his bottom lip. Warrick bit back a sigh and waited. At last Gris said, "Nick . . . Nick won't . . . need you tonight?"  

Surprised green eyes studied troubled blue. Huh. Grissom was  worried about Nick? Warrick grinned, "He's got that big ol' hound dog for company. A four-legged chick magnet." 

"You, uh," Grissom nervously flexed his fingers and tried to joke. "You don't magnetize any chicks with him, okay?" 

Whoa. What? Where had that come from?  

"No, baby. I said I'd be right up." 

Relieved, but still a little unconvinced, Grissom entered the hotel lobby, leaving Warrick perplexed, and a whole lot worried out on the sidewalk. 

With a shake of his head, he crossed narrow 8th street into Robinson Park. He spied the flashlight first, down by some spindly trees and a picnic table then Nick straining at one end of the leash and Hank at the other. 

"Hey," Warrick greeted. 

"Don't eat that!" With a mighty effort, Nick dragged the young boxer away from some other dog's poop. "Where's Gris?"  

"Gone inside." 

"Dang it! He's the alpha dog of this pack. The only one Hank's got any interest in obeying." 

"Hell, I'd obey a man who had the power to stick a thermometer up my butt, too. Here!" Warrick tossed the paper bag to Nick and grabbed the leash. "I'll handle ol' Hank while you eat." 

"Thanks, man!" Nick shot over to the picnic table while Warrick wrestled Hank. 

"Where did y'all eat?" Nick obviously didn't care. Was just being polite. Judging from the way he was ripping into the bag, unwrapping, and inhaling his churrasco and black beans and rice. Once Hank got a whiff of the grilled meat, Warrick had a battle on his hands. 

"Brazilian--shit, stop it, dog!--place up the street." 

"Hmmmm." 

"Damn, Nick, why couldn't you have rescued an animal easier to control?" Warrick shoved a slobbering Hank away from the picnic table. "A rhinoceros or a tiger or something?" 

"Hey, man," Nick said in between chews. "That's the thing about being a Hero. You never get to pick and choose your quests." 

"Yeah? Well, listen, Hercules, your twelfth and final labor is over and out 'cause you done went and found Cerberus." Warrick finally worked his way down the leash and grabbed the dog's harness. He sat down on the picnic table bench and yanked the dog in between his knees. "Sit down, dammit!" 

Dog and man panted and strained. Warrick finally shoved the dog's hindquarters to the ground.  

"Don't even think about it, mutt!" as he started to get back up. Luckily Hank spotted the remains of a picnic sandwich just past his left paw. At least, Warrick hoped it was the remains of a picnic sandwich. At any rate, Hank left off fighting and commenced to chewing. 
 

"Oh, man, this is good," Nick hummed pure contentment. 

"Great," Warrick gulped in oxygen. At least the night was dry. Sweat wicked right off him. When he finally got his breath back, he asked, "You gonna be okay tonight?" 

Without a pause in chewing, Nick gave a nonchalant nod. 

"I mean it, now. No more being the hero. Twelve labors and shit over and out, you dig?" 

A big swallow. "I'll be okay. Honest," he nodded. "Today, I dunno, today was the first time in a long time I felt useful. Like I was making a difference." And then he grinned. "Gettin' bossed around by Gris felt good. Hell, even him chewin' up my ass felt good. Made me feel alive, man. Like everything's finally getting back to normal." 

"Cool," Warrick nodded. "But you know I'm only a phone call away." 

"Yeah, dawg. I know." Nicky used the last piece of grilled pineapple to shovel in the last of the rice and beans. "But you belong with Gris tonight." 

"You sure?" 

Nick opened the styrofoam box holding his dessert. "Flan! Thank you, Jesus!" 

"You can thank Gris, actually." 

"Well, yeah, I will." He spooned up some of the stiff custard and caramel topping, popped it into his mouth, looked like he just tasted paradise. "Oh, damn, that's good." 

Shaking his head, pleased that Nick actually seemed to be enjoying himself, Warrick glanced overhead at the faint, mid-summer night stars and the waning quarter moon. Even though cars droned up and down Central non-stop, some with their windows rolled down to let blasts of conjunto or heavy metal or rap or even reggae into the night, it seemed still and quiet, full of peace and contentment.  

A scant dozen spoon scrapings on styrofoam later, Nick sat back with a satisfied sigh. "Best dinner I've had in months." 

Warrick simply smiled and chilled with the night's beauty.  

A few minutes more of silence then Nick said, "Hey, Rick?" 

"Yeah, man." 
 

"Speaking of Gris, thank him for me. Will ya?" 

"You can thank him for dessert tomorrow, Nicky." 

"No, no, not about . . . Look, thank him for loaning you to me for so long." 

"Loaning me?" Warrick tried not to sound offended as he tried to puzzle out Nick's expression in the darkness. 

"Yeah. All the time you spent with me and away from him. That's hard on a relationship." Nick shrugged. "Few years back, my Mom spent most every week down in Austin taking care of her mother when she was so bad. Dad, uh, well, Dad and his secretary got kinda close." Then he sighed. "There almost wasn't a 50th anniversary, if you know what I mean." 

"Damn. That's--" Warrick stopped. Suddenly all the weird pieces of the day fit. Grissom snapping on Nicky and demanding changes in the itinerary all day. Grissom jumping into command mode this afternoon, Grissom worried and hesitant this evening. Grissom had been acting out all day long because he was flat out jealous. Warrick closed his eyes. Oh, baby, what am I gonna do with you?  

"Rick?" 

Warrick blinked, realized Nick was staring at him concerned. "Sorry, Nick. That's . . . too bad. Glad your folks worked things out." 

"More like Mom worked things out. Dad had himself a new secretary the day after Mom found out." 

"Heh. Whatever it takes, man. Look, uh, you think you're ready to haul ol' Hank here up to your room?" 

"Oh. Sure, man," Nicky said, gathering up the detritus of his meal. 

Warrick stretched his neck, took a deep breath, then stood. Unfortunately he forgot he had a forty pound hound of hell on the end of a leash. 

Hank immediately lunged forward, yanking Warrick off balance and flat onto his face. Shit! Somehow he managed to hang on to the leash. 

"Rick?! You okay?!" 

As he was being dragged forward, Warrick shouted, "Stop this fucker!" 
 

"Dammit, Hank! Stop!" Nick yelled, grabbing the dog's harness and lifting his powerful forelegs off the ground. "Bad dog! Bad dog!" 

"Goddammit!" Warrick spit dirt and dried grass out of his mouth, wiped the same off his face. 

"Rick?" 

Warrick shot to his feet. "I am not spending the rest of my vacation with Droolzilla!" 

"He's just a young pup! He don't know any better! Not yet. I'll train--" 

"No!" Warrick shouted, brushing who knows what off his Cubavera silk shirt and Perry Ellis linen trousers. He picked grass and small twigs out of his hair. 

Nick stammered, "Look, uh, let's . . . let's just go inside and sleep on it, okay?" 

"Fuck that, man! Dog's not gettin' anywhere near my car or me!" Head held high, Warrick powered away from the park. He heard Nick and the demon dog close behind but didn't stop or look at them, even when Nick asked. 

Warrick strode into the lobby, pressed the up elevator button. He felt Nick step up close. But not too close. 

Nick scuffed his feet on the tile floor. "So, uh, you wanna call me when you get up in the morning?" 

Jaw clamped tight, Warrick hissed out, "Fine." 

"I'll, uh, I'll hunt up a vet. And someplace to board Hank." 

"Got to be the slowest fucking elevator in existence!" Warrick fumed, just stopping himself from punching the up button again. 

"Until I can come back and get him," Nick finished. "He'll be a great dog once he's trained." 

Warrick glared up at the ceiling, at the fresh, cool Mediterranean blue and white paint glistening there. And he blew out a big, big breath. 

"Fuck." A long pause. A resigned huff of air. He just knew he was going to regret this. "Dog can go with us." 

"You sure?" The grateful hope in Nick's voice almost pitched Warrick into another fit.  
 

"Yes," he snapped.  

At last the elevator arrived. The doors chugged open, and Warrick stomped inside. He turned around and held up his hand, stopping Nick and Hank from boarding. "But, I mean it, Nick,  keep that mutt away from me." 

His best friend nodded. "Thanks, man." 

"Yeah, yeah." He punched the button for the fourth floor then leaned against the back wall. 

"No, man, really. And Rick," Nick said just as the elevator doors started cranking shut. An apologetic grin crossed his face, and he pointed to a smelly dark stain on Warrick's silk shirt. "You missed a spot." 

****** 

"Oh, Jesus, baby, yessss," Warrick moaned. 

He lay stretched out on his stomach, his boyfriend's thumbs dug deep into aching shoulder muscles.  

"Yeahhhh." 

Firm fingers found and released pressure points. Strong but gentle hands lifted and rolled heavy muscles. Warrick breathed deep as blood flow into tight muscles increased, as aching ligaments relaxed. 

"Hnnnn." 

Yeah. A massage was just what the doctor ordered. Warrick snorted. Doctor Grissom, that is.  

"Ohhh, baby, that's sooo good." 

Oh, man, Warrick must've looked a sight. Judging by the slack-jawed, wide-eyed way Gris looked up from reading when his boyfriend came steaming in the door. Without a word, Grissom had set down his book, rolled out of bed, and helped his boyfriend get undressed. Not that his boyfriend wanted any help, had in fact jerked angrily away at Grissom's touch. But Gris had persisted. He'd gathered up Warrick's soiled clothing and herded him into a hot shower.  

And when Warrick had finally stepped out of the shower, clean if not happy, the lights shone low, Elgar's Enigma Variations played softly on the hotel room's clock radio, the bed spread and top sheet lay neatly folded on the floor, and Gris sat on the bed rolling a small bottle of all-purpose massage oil between his hands.  
 

"Where are my clothes?" Warrick had fumed. 

Still as deep water, Gris had replied, "On the balcony. I scrubbed out what I could. We'll get them to a dry cleaner tomorrow." Then he'd quirked his head and patted the bed. "Lie down." 

But Warrick still had too much anger in him. He crossed his arms. "Did you see what that . . . that four-legged pestilence did to my new eighty dollar silk shirt?!" 

Grissom had simply nodded, stood, and gestured to the bed.  

"I don't like dogs. They tear things up. They smell bad." 

"They do. Lie down." 

But righteous indignation felt too good to let go too easily. "I ain't never gonna be able to wear that shirt again!" 

"So I'll buy you a new shirt." 

"Gris--" 

"Warrick!" Grissom had lost patience. "Lie down!" 

Green eyes had widened, nostrils flared, and Warrick at last ditched his anger. Damn but he loved a flash of passion from his baby. It had been on the tip of his tongue to challenge, "Make me."  

But they'd have enough room damage to pay off with just the dog. 

So instead Warrick had blown out a big breath, smiled a silent challenge at Gris, and slowly, coolly stretched out on the bed. 

And here he was, warm and blessed and loved. Grissom perched on Warrick's muscular ass, strong hands kneading, rubbing, soothing his back. Elgar flowed smoothly into Debussy. Warrick breathed deep, erasing the worries of the day. 

"Oh, baby, I'll give you all night to stop doing that." 

Without a word, Gris methodically worked his way down Warrick's broad back to his butt to his upper thighs. Light, small circles to tease out muscular knots then broadening to deep, large circles to chase those knots away. Chase all tension away.  

"Hunnnnnhhh," Warrick said to his right hamstring as it released into Grissom's strong hands. 

By the time those strong hands gently cradled his feet, Warrick was as limp as a worn out kitten. He even stopped talking. He didn't even moan a protest when Gris got up, taking those miracle-working hands away.  

In fact, Warrick was slipping into sleep when he felt soft lips and a soft beard kissing his shoulder. All he could manage was a slight flutter of eyelashes. Lips and beard and hands like feathers brushed his back and neck. This time he managed a brief smile. And then the lips and beard and hands headed south.  

Oh, man, his boyfriend's lips and teeth, tongue and fingers did amazing things. Wet tongue teased down between Warrick's buttocks, skilled fingers stroked the underside of his lengthening cock. Damn. Warrick felt like he was rocketing from zero to sixty in under three seconds. 

"Ohhhh," he groaned and bucked into the mattress. Oh, yeah, this was good. This was great but not what he wanted. Not what he'd planned for the evening. No, he wanted to plunge deep into his boyfriend's body. Yeah. He better stop this now before it was all over. 

"Grisssss. Sssstop. Want to roll over." 

His boyfriend, though, seemed too caught up in giving pleasure to hear. 

"Grisss, baby, damn." He raised his head, tried to push up. 

A gentle but firm hand in the small of his back pushed him back down. "Anima, let go."  

Low and soft, Grissom's voice swept across Warrick's body like the finest velvet. He gasped, waves of pleasure cascading over him. Green eyes blinking, he could just make out his boyfriend's lop-sided smile. 

"You take care of everyone else," Gris said. "Let me take care of you."  

Damn. Warrick didn't know he had any tension left. But he did. His head dropped back to the mattress. Yeah. He shouldered other people's burdens. He took responsibility when others couldn't. It was his upbringing and his nature. At least tonight, though, maybe he could let Gris take over.  

With a shaky breath, Warrick let his worry for Nicky go. Let his resentment of the dog go. Let his frustration with Gris go. Let everything go.  

A sweet kiss to his left buttock, and then lips and beard and teeth and tongue and fingers went back to work. Gris put most every bone-melting technique from his extensive erotic repertoire into play. And Warrick let go. 
 

He hummed, he crooned, he groaned. He felt tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. He felt his boyfriend's butterfly tongue wake every nerve in his ass, oil slicked fingers paint a masterpiece on his cock and balls. Muscles trembling, shaking, burning. Oh, Jesus, yeah, baby!  

He moaned, he sighed, he screamed. Until his body reached its limit, when it splintered into completion, and uncontrolled tremors tore his voice away. What little strength he had left vanished.  

With reverent tenderness, he felt himself rolled over onto his back. More loving kisses and gentle strokes, then a soft tongue and a dry towel cleaned him. The sweet tongue even licked the tears from his eyelashes. Oh merciful Jesus. 

When he got his breath back, when he could summon the effort to open his eyes, he watched his amazing boyfriend fetch a fresh towel to lay over the wet spot. Then Gris pulled up the top sheet and bedspread, turned off the bedside lamp, and got into bed.  

Warrick felt his boyfriend settle onto his back, a safe distance away. For minutes, all was still, Warrick drifting into sleep, assuming that Grissom was doing the same. Then Gris let loose a longing sigh. Powerful hands and arms reached out for Warrick's blissed out body. They pulled him in close, tucked his head into Grissom's throat, tugged a limp arm and limp leg across his sturdy body. They wrapped around Warrick and hugged hard. Yeah. Love you, too, baby. 

One more deep breath pushing past the lump in his throat, and Warrick let the waking world go. 

****** 

The choral reprise of Nessun Dorma still thundered in Grissom's ears. The bright, massive stage and glittering, fantastic costumes still paraded before his eyes. He could still hear and see Turandot, even though physically he waited outside the Santa Fe Opera, at the edge of the massive parking lot.  

Buses, vans, and cars slowly edged their way into the night. Back south to Santa Fe or  Albuquerque. Or north to Tesuque or any number of small towns catering to tourists. A few men in tuxedos, most in business suits or sports coats and jeans. Women in everything from jean skirts to evening gowns. Voices from everywhere. All here to celebrate at one of the grandest altars of grand opera. 
 

In his gray court suit, blue dress shirt, and blue and gray tie, Gris took a big gulp of cool mountain air. And then he grinned. Turandot had been magnificent. Voices, set, costumes, orchestra. God, even the building had been magnificent. Open on the sides so that Grissom could keep one eye on the stage and one on the setting sun, the Santa Fe Opera equaled the acoustics of every enclosed opera house he'd ever been in. And during the first act, miraculous! As the People sang for the moon to appear, to hasten the Prince of Persia to his death, Grissom could see the actual moon, a golden crescent, slowly rising to his left.  

To be honest, the entire day had been magnificent. From waking up wrapped around Warrick's warm body to being wrapped up in Puccini's opulent music. Simply magnificent. Everything had fallen into place. 

When Warrick had called Nick early that morning, Nick had already found a veterinary clinic that could see Hank right away. The vet had pronounced Hank in perfect health and given him all the requisite vaccinations. The clinic could even board him for a couple of days.  

While Nick, Warrick, and Hank were at the vet, Gris had wandered down to the hotel lobby to ask about a reputable dry cleaner. The manager of Hotel Blue had insisted on taking Warrick's soiled clothing to his mother's house.  

"If Mama Guzman can't get these stains out, you get your room tonight free. On the house," the manager had declared. Grissom had instantly forked over the clothing. 

Dog-free, the three men had wolfed down breakfast burritos at Little Anita's--a green chile topping that blew open Grissom's nasal passages for the rest of the week. In between bites, Nick and Warrick had teased each other without mercy. Even though he ignored them, Gris was pleased to see Nick looking so . . . like Nick. Dark eyes bright and clear, broad smile brilliant and easy. The shadows had fled. If only for a moment. 

They'd bypassed Interstate 25 and driven up the Turquoise Trail to Santa Fe,  a slower but infinitely more scenic trip. Giant pine trees, cold clear streams, abandoned mining towns, and funky art colonies. The men never knew what might lie around the next bend.  

When they arrived in Santa Fe a little before noon, they'd found a rare parking space in a public garage just off the plaza. Then they'd wandered narrow streets, ducking into art galleries when the 90 degree heat got to be too much.  

Warrick had looked deliciously cool despite the heat: heather green short-sleeve linen shirt, baggy cargo shorts, leather sandals, and stylish shades. It hadn't been just Grissom who'd enjoyed watching Warrick. Gris had sighed as men and women stared longingly at his boyfriend. But their stares still hadn't diminished Grissom's joy at being out with Warrick. Well, not too much. 

Late afternoon, the three men had toured the Georgia O'Keefe Museum where Grissom had had  another opportunity to study Warrick. As he'd gazed at the sensual curves and brilliant colors of O'Keefe's outsized flowers, his emotions had flickered beautifully transparent on his handsome, dark features. Delight and wonder, curiosity and admiration. And even lust. All there as Warrick moved from masterpiece to masterpiece. Again Gris had sighed. How greedy was it to want those same emotions directed at himself alone? 
 

And then dinner. Magnificent. Buffalo short rib tostada and a bottle of St. Joseph Rhone on the patio at La Casa Cena. Great food, great conversation, and plenty of chances to gaze at Warrick. 

A quick trip to the men's room at La Casa Cena to change into a suit and tie for Grissom and dressy shirts and slacks for Warrick and Nick. Opera for one, night clubbing for two. Would that it had been opera for two, but Grissom was a realist. Even then Gris enjoyed seeing Warrick dress up: a light gray v-neck silk shirt worn under a navy blue suit jacket and over gray slacks. Dressy and casual. And magnificent. 

For Grissom, though, the most magnificent thing happened during late afternoon. The three men were skirting the plaza. They'd just stepped onto the wood covered walkway in front of the Palace of the Governors, a thick adobe building that had already housed generations of statesmen and soldiers before George Washington was born. The walkway had been lined with multi-colored wool blankets. Jewelry, polished stones, dolls, clay figurines, clay bowls, and clay pots crammed onto every inch of cloth. Native Americans selling traditional crafts to hordes of tourists.  

The artists were starting to pack up, stacking their traditional crafts in clear Tupperware boxes, when Nick had called to Warrick. Curious, Grissom had tagged along. At one end of the Palace walkway, they joined Nick who gazed down at necklaces laid out on a large blue and gray blanket.  

"When I was little, we vacationed a lot in New Mexico," Nick had said, reaching down and picking up one of the necklaces. It was a simple strand of leather threaded through a single small stone about the size of a penny. The green stone had been carved into the shape of a frog. "Each trip I got a new fetish." 

"Well, that's no surprise," Warrick snarked. 

"Oh, like I never heard that one in 8th grade," Nick fired back. 

As usual when they started teasing each other, Grissom ignored them and squatted down for a closer look at the carved fetish stones.  Delicate bears and foxes, turtles and eagles teased out from onyz and quartz, turquoise and travertine. Beautiful. 

"The mountain lion will protect you on your journey." A middle aged woman, Esmeralda Quam of the Zuni tribe her name tag read, presided over the blanket. Black eyes sparkled in a round face.  

"I thought mountain lions ate travelers," Gris said. 

"Only the slow ones," Esmeralda deadpanned. 
 

A tiny lift of lips. How many times has she used that line, he wondered. Putting on his glasses, he studied the fetishes, how the carvers had cleverly incorporated features of the stone to highlight features of the animal--faint gray flaws in white stone mimicked a mountain lion's whiskers, dapples of green in dark azurite hinted at a badger's musculature, a vein of dark brown in dark pink coral outlined the shape of a wolf's hip. 

"You should buy him the wolf," Nick had said. "It's for protection when hunting big game." 

Grissom started as long, musician's fingers brushed his shoulder then reached for the necklace with the coral wolf, its hip outlined in dark brown. 

"How much for the wolf?" Warrick asked, aiming a sly wink at his boyfriend. 

The woman's black eyes slid from Warrick to Grissom and back. "A gift?" 

"Yeah." 

"For a hunter of big game?" She'd sounded skeptical. 

"Well, he bags a lotta big bad guys." 

Grissom snorted.  

"And a lotta big bad women, too," Nick added. 

"Fellas," Gris warned the younger men and stood up. The last thing he wanted was to be fussed over in public. Or in private, for that matter. 

"Huh. Looks like he bagged maybe one good man, too," the woman guessed as Warrick handed over three twenties.  

Shaking his head, Nick pointed at Warrick. "Yeah. I ain't sure he's all that good, though." 

"Well, we can't all be boy scouts," Warrick said as Gris shifted from foot to foot and drove his hands deep into his pockets.  

She'd handed Warrick a small draw string suede bag to put the necklace in but long fingers had other ideas. They'd slipped the necklace over Grissom's head, centering the stone wolf on his chest, right above his heart.  

Sky blue eyes had looked shyly into sea green. "Thank you." 
 

A heart beat, then Warrick had leaned in and whispered, "Baby, tonight I'll make you howl like a wolf." 

Grissom had shivered in the 90 degree afternoon heat. 

Tonight, standing in front of the Santa Fe Opera, he shivered again. Not so much from the 30 degree drop in temperature as from the memory of Warrick's voice. And his promise.  

Grissom's fingers slipped under his tie and located the stone wolf hanging beneath his dress shirt. He wondered what in the world could have possessed his anima to buy the necklace. And then he wondered where the hell his anima was. Gris cupped his hand around his wrist watch so that he could better read the illuminated dial. Almost midnight. He'd called nearly an hour ago. The parking lot was growing empty. The gaps between the headlights snaking out to US 285 were getting larger. 

Drawing his cell from his front pocket, he flipped the phone open and checked for calls. No missed calls. He hit Talk twice to re-dial Warrick. 

Four rings then Warrick picked up. "We're on the way. Just pulled onto Opera Drive. I'll explain later." Just before his boyfriend hung up, Grissom could have sworn he heard a woman laugh. Maybe more than one laugh. Maybe more than one woman. What the hell?! 

Grissom stuffed his phone back in his pocket and tried not to speculate. He didn't have enough evidence. Well, he didn't have any evidence, actually. So he blew out a big breath, shoved his hands deep in his pockets, and tried to summon up what he'd seen and heard during Puccini's Turandot. 

Less than five minutes passed before Grissom heard the Lexus. Its powerful engine crested the ridge then shot down the other side into the lower parking lot. It cruised up fast but braked smoothly and almost silent, passenger side toward Grissom. There were indeed two people in the car. Besides his boyfriend and Nick. 

The front passenger side window whirred down. "Hey, Gris," Nick grinned an apology. "We'll explain on the way." 

"On the way where?" 

Long arm draped over the steering wheel, Warrick leaned forward. "Get in the car, Gris. Time's a wastin'." 

"It's nearly midnight. Where in th--" 
 

He stopped talking because the rear passenger side door swung open, and flowing out the door was a brunette with legs as long as a mid-summer's day. And just as hot. She looked to be in her mid twenties and was dressed in a strapless little black dress and three inch high heels. Which made her three inches taller than Grissom. 

"Hi," she bubbled holding out her hand. "I'm Cristina. Tina for short." 

Grissom blinked at her hand while raucous laughter burst from the front seat.  

Fuck me, he thought. Not another Tina.  

Just as her smile was starting to slip, he remembered his manners and stepped forward to shake her hand. "H-hello." 

"That is the famous Dr. Gil Grissom," Nick said. "He's the bug guy."  

"Oh," she said. But not in the way most people said it. She actually seemed excited. "I am so glad to meet you, Dr. Grissom. I want to talk to you about photographing water beetles." 

"Get back in the car, Tina," complained another feminine voice from the back seat. "It's getting chilly." 

Tina grinned and motioned toward the back seat. "After you." 

"Nick, let me ride shotgun." 

"No can do, Gris," Warrick chortled. "Nicky's got to navigate." 

"I can read a map." 

"It ain't on a map," Nick sniggered, waving what looked like a napkin in his right hand.  

Fuck. 

"C'mon, guys, I'm cold," moaned the voice in the back seat. 

"Gotta admit," Tina's perfect teeth flashed. "I'm starting to get goose bumps on my goose bumps." 

"Well . . . ladies first," Gris smiled magnanimously. 

Tina towered over him with a sweet smile. "But, Dr. Grissom, I'm no lady." 

Uhhhh. 
 

"Gris, get in the fucking car already!"  

Oh, god. What the hell was his boyfriend and his boyfriend's best friend getting him into? With a resigned lift of his right eyebrow, Grissom climbed into the back seat, Tina wedged in beside him, and the Lexus zoomed into the night. 

He was sandwiched between the brunette and a redhead. Where the brunette was tall and thin, the redhead was average and curvy. 

"Hi, Gil, I'm Sugar." The redhead briskly rubbed her upper arms. She was wearing a form fitting aquamarine dress. He'd caught the color in the overhead light just before Tina had swung the rear door shut. He'd also caught that the hem of Sugar's dress ended in the middle of pale freckled thighs. Suddenly she leaned toward him."Do you mind?" 

"Mind what?" 

Sugar wound her arm around his and shivered in close. 

"H-how about I g-give you my jacket," Gris tried to pull away. She had a power lifter's grip. 

"Thanks, but I'm fine right where I am." 

Muffled laughter from the front seat. 

He worked his jaw. "Anyone care to explain what's--" 

"Nick and Warrick came to our rescue," Tina said, nestling into his right side. 

Sugar added, "You'd think two women could have, like, a nice, quiet drink in a nice, quiet hotel bar without getting hit on by every creep in New Mexico--" 

"Or Old." 

"Yeah! Like especially Old Mexico, but noooo." 

"Some guys don't understand that we're not interested." 

"Like they won't take 'no' for an answer." 

"They think that every woman should fall at their feet." 

An Olympic ping pong match wouldn't move as fast. 
 

"So like we tell this guy we aren't interested." 

"Like we'd be interested even if we were interested. His breath was gross," Tina shivered. 

"Totally gross. He had green teeth!" 

"He did not have green teeth." 

"Guacamole green teeth," Sugar stated firmly. 

"Whatever. Green teeth or no, he's persistent. Doesn't want to look bad in front of his drunk buddies. Also gross." 

"Like totally gross. He gets loud. Like really loud. He grabs my arm!" Sugar held out the arm not wound around Grissom's. "See?" 

"No."  

It was dark, and his Mag-Lite was back in Albuquerque, but that really didn't matter to Sugar. 

"So like Nick grabs his wrist and makes him let go." 

"The guy tries to push Nick but he doesn't even move." Tina crossed her arms and scooted even closer. "Guy starts looking around for his buddies." 

"But they're like all too busy drinking and looking the other way because Warrick is like standing right behind Nick shooting death rays out of his eyes at them." Sugar brought her free hand up to her face and pantomimed death rays shooting out of her eyes. 

Interesting. Grissom felt like he could summon up some death rays of his own.  

"So we left the hotel bar to catch the trolley to our hotel." 

"And guess what?" Tina said. 

"Yeah, like guess what?" Sugar added. 

Before Grissom could guess, Tina answered. "Some other creeps start hassling us at the trolley stop!" 

"And that's when Nick and Warrick like you know rescued us again!" 
 

A fractional pause in the women's dialog, and with his most cutting, sardonic tone, Gris said, "Well, Nick, I hear Fire and Rescue are always looking for good people." 

"Hey, now, boss," Nick scratched the back of his neck. "You know I love my job." 

"Dr. Grissom? Are you mad at Nick?" Tina asked. 

"Is Nick like in the dog house?" Sugar joked. 

A calming breath. "Well, if he were, he wouldn't be alone," Grissom lasered death rays into the back of Warrick's head. Of course, the two women misunderstood. 

"Nick told us about rescuing that dog!" 

"Hank!" 

"Yeah, Hank! That's a cute name."  

"I had a hamster named Hank!" 

And on it went, mile after mile. Grissom glaring into the rearview mirror, Nick and Warrick never quite meeting his eye, the two women--both seniors at the University of New Mexico, though Sugar was originally from Pampa, Texas, and Tina from El Paso, both majoring in photography, both, well, before the end of the drive, Grissom knew more about Sugar and Tina's lives than he did about the lives of all of his CSIs. Including Warrick. 

Grissom did his best to relax and go with the flow. It was difficult considering he had young, half-naked, intelligent women pressed up against him, seeking warmth like he was a portable heater. But he tried. If only to show his two tormentors in the front seat that he wasn't freaked out.  

Still it felt like they drove for hours. Grissom finally pried his arm free of Sugar's grip just to check his watch. It was only 12:30. God. Only half an hour. That is, assuming only 30 minutes had passed and not an entire day and 30 minutes. The Lexus was bouncing on an unpaved road in the middle of nowhere. Except for the dashboard lights and headlights, it was completely dark. He thought they were driving uphill, but they could be driving up the esophagus into the first belly of a whale for all Grissom could see. 

"Slow down, Warrick!" Nick interrupted Tina and Sugar's rapid-fire and actually quite interesting dialog on photographing dunes at sunrise in White Sands National Monument. "You'll miss the turn." 

"Then I'll back up."  
 

"Yeah, but you usually back up faster than you drive forward, and we'll miss it again." 

"Gentlemen," Grissom broke in. "Where are we going?" 

"You hear something in the back seat, Nick?" 

"Something other than Tina and Sugar?" 

Tina leaned forward, closer to Nick's ear. "Anytime you have anything intelligent to add to the conversation, Mr. Stokes, jump right in." 

"Oh ho! Smack down," Warrick laughed. 

"I'd like to know where we're going," Grissom asked again. 

"You'll know when we get--" 

"That's the turn!" Nick pointed to the left. 

Warrick braked, threw the Lexus into reverse, snapped all their heads backing up, then a quick shift into drive and a sharp left turn. 

"Not much farther now," Nick consulted his napkin. 

Grissom sat back, cuddled in on all sides, and bided his time. Warrick was so gonna get it. 

****** 

The house was stunning. It gleamed into the dark, all wood and glass and adobe brick, electric lights shining like a small sun. Grissom and his entourage crunched up the gravel driveway, weaving their way around parked limousines, cars, SUVs, pickup trucks, jeeps, motorcycles, and even bicycles.  

Once out of the Lexus, he'd thought he could walk as a free man, but Tina and Sugar had once again latched on to his sides. Nick was in the lead, Warrick walked behind. Then half-way up the drive, Grissom felt large hands sneaking under his jacket and squeezing his ass.  

"Jesus!" he gasped. 

"Dr. Grissom?" Sugar's pale face looked up at him. 

"The house," he stuttered. "It's beauti--"  
 

Long fingers skated wickedly over his ass. 

"Beautiful," he bit back a groan. 

"Oh, it certainly is," Warrick chuckled into a pink ear. 

At least Nick was behaving respectably. Arrowing for the front door, he hefted a large paper bag that clinked with every step. The tell-tale sound of a bag full of booze.  

The group finally reached the house. Grissom was fighting back a hard on and trying to get away from Tina and Sugar. They wouldn't let go, convinced he was having trouble breathing in the high altitude. Warrick was laughing and stroking his boyfriend's ass.  

"Would y'all settle down?" Nick warned as he rang the bell. 

A cherub on steroids opened the door. 

"Five people, five bottles," he thundered, filling the entrance to the house. 

Nick handed over the paper bag. The cherub took it and looked inside. 

"Ooo. Ya brought the good stuff! We usually get wine in a bucket." He stepped aside, halo of curly blond hair scattering the light. "Come on in. No kicking, biting, or hair pulling. And watch out for the horn section." 

Tina and Sugar giggled their way inside, hauling Grissom between them. Down a terra cotta tile  hallway then into a massive room. The ceiling and floor were all wood, the outside wall all glass. During the day, the view would be breathtaking, probably a panorama of the Jemez and Sangre de Cristo Mountain Ranges.  

But tonight all Grissom could see was bedlam. Bodies lounging, dancing, drinking, laughing. Music and more music. And not from a stereo, either. In one corner of the first floor, a guitar, clarinet, and double bass jammed uptempo jazz. In another, operatic voices bellowed American standards, from Cole Porter to Jerome Kern to George Gershwin. And in another, a group of drunks and a piano rang out Christmas carols in July. Christmas carols with decidedly bawdy lyrics. The "Little Drummer Boy" had never sounded so sordid. 

"C'mon, ladies," Warrick peeled away Tina and Sugar. Tina threw her arms around his neck for an impromptu waltz.  

When Sugar reached for Grissom, he froze her with a sharp, "I don't dance." 
 

Her pale face flushed, but she grinned. "No prob. Gotta be somebody here who does." She blew him a kiss and a wink then wandered off in search of a partner. Grissom assumed the partner would be Nick, but the young man had disappeared. Not that Gris really cared much where Nick was at the moment. 

No, Grissom lasered all his attention on Warrick and Tina. Somehow, out of the din, they could hear the one-two-three rhythm of Gershwin's "By Strauss." A parody and tribute to the Waltz King. But Gris wasn't amused. Tina and his boyfriend danced a little too long and a little too close. They sang the lyrics to one another. Laughing eyes and smiling faces for no one else but each other.  

Grissom hated the familiar punch in his gut. Despised himself for giving in to it. Jealousy. He told himself his feelings were irrational. Warrick was simply enjoying himself, indulging in something he loved--dancing. Something he couldn't enjoy with Grissom. He tried to look away, to marvel at this beautiful house and its beautiful furnishings and artwork. But he couldn't. 

Finally the song oom pah pahed to the end. Warrick playfully dipped Tina at Grissom's feet. Twinkling eyes and joyful faces looked up at him, but he could only stare. Warrick and

Tina looked at each other, burst into laughter, then straightened. They hugged, they kissed each other on the cheek. Then Tina broke away and brushed a kiss on Grissom's cheek. 

"Have fun," she drawled and slinked into the crowd. 

Warrick's long arm landed across Grissom's shoulders, soft lips leaned into his ear. "Girl's got a great pair of hoop earrings, huh?" 

"Yes," he snapped then winced. "Hoop earrings" was Grissom's code phrase for jealousy. He was supposed to say it when he felt the green eyed monster's punch. To say it aloud to remind himself that Warrick had promised not to stray and never to leave. 

"Hey, baby, relax."  

Grissom took a deep breath then stared sidelong into wicked green eyes. "Would you kindly tell me what's going on?" 

A spine-melting dimpled grin. "Heh. Just keeping you out of your comfort zone." 

"Eight months with you, I don't have a comfort zone!" 

Warrick laughed, and Grissom couldn't help it. His toes curled. God, but he loved his boyfriend. 

"Remember K'Lisha Marx?" Warrick said out of the blue. 

"The seamstress who helps at the Houston Grand?" 
 

"Yeah. Her aunt and uncle own this place. Couple of dot com billionaires. K'Lisha called tonight. She just found out about this shindig. Wants us to put in an appearance. In exchange for hooking us up with the ticket to Turandot. She wants to show her aunt and uncle that she knows some respectable people." 

"Since when did we get respectable?" 

"Heh," Warrick grinned. "Since we got full-time jobs and mortgage payments, baby." 

The arm across Grissom's shoulders tightened into a hug. Gris felt his heart pause then begin beating again, much faster. The green eyed monster inside him slowly lowered its head. 

From out of the crowd, Nick joined them, gesturing outside with his thumb. "Mister and Missus Davis are out on the deck. Mister's in a monkey suit. Lady's in a gold evening gown." 

"Good!" Grissom nearly shouted, happy to leave the deafening inside for the hopefully less noisy outside. He started to pull away from Warrick but failed. A long arm stayed wrapped around Grissom's shoulders as the three men picked their way toward the deck. Young men and women with face piercings, tattoos, and ripped blue jeans. Old men with cowboy hats and leather vests and boots. Old women in flowing gowns and furs. Gris shook his head. The Davises threw one hell of a party. 

Out in the night air, the noise grew less but not the crowd.  

"Nicky, you all right?" Warrick rumbled. 

Nick looked a little pale to Grissom but not so fragile as when they'd set out from Las Vegas. 

"I'm okay. Gonna be okay." 

"You give me the word, and we're out of here." 

"I'm cool, dawg," Nick nodded, then a nervous grin. "Think I'll hang out at the bar for a bit." He left them, making a bee line for the booze table. 

Grissom's right eyebrow edged upward. Hmm. If Warrick cut Nick some slack when it came to crowds, maybe . . .  

"What if I give the word?" 

A teasing, bone-melting grin turned his way. "Depends on what the word is." 

Blue eyes narrowed. "How about 'please'?" 

"Nah, that's not it."  

The green eyed monster stirred. "Then how about 'Tina'?" 

A flicking, disappointed glance. "Baby, you know that's not the word." A soft sigh. "And neither is 'Sugar'." 

Grissom should have felt chastened. The green-eyed monster put to bed. But his jealousy was stronger than good sense. 

"Then I guess it's 'Nick'," he joked. Only both Gris and Warrick knew it wasn't a joke. 

Warrick had every reason to remove his arm, to walk away in disgust. Hell, he had every reason to kick Grissom in the ass.  

Instead, Warrick simply shook his head. Then his soft lips brushed Gris on his temple. Somehow, a kick in the ass would've hurt less. Grissom immediately felt ashamed. For a man who guarded almost every utterance, he was doubly ashamed. To have put his foot so solidly in his mouth. To have lowered himself in Warrick's eyes. 

"I thought we were past this." 

"I thought so, too," Grissom said, looking everywhere but at Warrick. 

"Nick's pretty vulnerable right now. He doesn't need your jealousy. He sure as hell doesn't deserve it. He needs you to be a friend." 

Too embarrassed to speak, Gris simply nodded his head. As if he weren't completely out to sea already in trying to deal with his jealousy, now Warrick wanted him to try to be a "friend." Grissom wasn't even sure how to be a friend. He had few models to draw upon. He guessed he might be friends with Jim Brass and Catherine Willows, but even those friendships were based on work. What was friendship like away from work? Gris shut his eyes. 

"You wanna talk about it?" 

He shook his head. What could he say? What promises could he give that he couldn't seem to keep? Or didn't know how to keep? He opened his eyes and watched a waiter scurry past with a tray full of hors d'oeuvres. The guests hoovered the tray clean within seconds. Warrick meanwhile stood waiting patiently, kind but expectant. Grissom had to say something. 

"I think," he swallowed. "I think . . . I'll quietly contemplate the taste of my shoe leather for a few minutes longer."  
 

He stole a hopeful glance at his boyfriend. 

Cool green eyes gazed back. "Huh. Shoe leather taste any good?" 

"Tastes terrible." 

"Hope you remember that taste next time. Before you go making accusations." 

Gris nodded. He promised himself that he'd swallow his own tongue before letting the green-eyed monster drive it again. 

With Warrick's arm over his shoulders, Grissom followed his boyfriend's lead, pushing through the crazy crowd, past stand up tables crammed with empty plates and glasses, past lounge chairs and pillows each occupied by two or more persons, past everyone and everything and at last up to the steel and wooden railing edging the deck. Gris grabbed hold of the thick wooden rail and looked up into an infinity of stars. He took an enormous breath. The taste of emptiness helped wash away the taste of shame. 

"The stage hands grew so tired of her complaining about insufficient padding, they put out a trampoline instead," a guy in a tux next to them was saying to a group in blue jeans. "So the next time our diva jumps to her death off the battlements, she bounces back up, over and over, until the curtain comes down!" 

Grissom recognized the anecdote. The opera Tosca and the prima donna. Probably apocryphal, but still funny. 

With a wistful smile, Gris rocked up onto his toes and craned his head to look down over the side of the deck. Probably no chance of performing Tosca here. He had no idea how far the drop from deck to ground was, but he'd wager it was hundreds of feet. What's the point of a hill-top vista without some element of danger? 

"Damn. Can't see nobody in this crowd." 

Suddenly Grissom felt the loss of Warrick's arm on his shoulders. Then Gris realized Warrick had leaped up onto the railing. He was scanning the crowd, heedless of the danger.  

Instinctively Gris reached out then stopped. Horror flashed before blue eyes: his boyfriend thrown off balance by clumsy hands, tumbling off the deck, falling a hundred feet, smashing into unforgiving sandstone below. In an instant, Grissom blanked his mind. He shut down. 

He didn't register when Warrick landed light as a cat on the deck. Didn't hear Warrick say, "They're over there." Didn't see him wave to his right and start walking in that direction. 
 

Grissom didn't notice. He didn't move. Like a statue he stood, completely unaware as strangers brushed past. 

"Gris?" A firm grip on his elbow roused him. Concerned green eyes studied him. "Baby?" 

He blinked, shook his head, gave a faint shrug. "I-I was uh . . . thinking." 

An unconvinced smile. "Uh huh. You okay?" 

No. A deep breath. "Yes," he swallowed. "I'm fine." Another deep breath. Well. So much for jealousy. So much for shame. So much for any selfish feeling in the face of losing Warrick. "Let's, uh, let's get this over with." 

"Damn, baby, you act like you gettin' called into Ecklie's office." 

"You know I don't like . . . making small talk." 

"Yeah, but I thought you liked being out with me." 

Ouch.  

"I do but--" He looked up into his boyfriend's beautiful face. Beautiful but for the worry lines creasing his brow. Good god, Grissom, get over yourself. He forced a grin. "Actually I love being out with you." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah." 

"Cool." Once again Warrick draped his long arm over Grissom's shoulders. "C'mon, baby, let's go be respectable." 

"I'm going to be paying off this opera ticket for months, aren't I?" Gris sighed, glancing sidelong at his boyfriend. 

"Nah," an easy, confident smile answered back. "More like years." 

****** 

Grissom woke at noon to an empty bed. He was surprised, although not at being alone. He knew Warrick had been planning to drive Nick to a rendezvous with the local parasailing club--"Bunch of crazy white boys jumping to their deaths off the side of a mountain," Warrick had termed it. 
 

But Gris was surprised that he'd slept through Warrick leaving. And was surprised to have slept for six hours straight. Especially when he'd paced himself last night. Only one gin and tonic and no more than half a bottle of a delightful cabernet. Usually Gris needed to work two days straight or drink half his weight in alcohol to sleep so long. 

Stretching, he rolled onto his back and laced his fingers behind his head. Light filtered in past the room's curtains, highlighting swirling patterns in the ceiling. He took a deep breath. Then a goofy smile spread across his face. 

He'd had fun. Honest to god fun. Well, once he'd gotten over his jealousy snit.  

He and Warrick had paid their respects to K'Lisha's aunt and uncle, Carter and Julia Davis, a sophisticated couple in their late 30s. Mrs. Davis had smoothly teamed Grissom up with an opera loving zoologist from Colorado State and a butterfly collecting baritone member of the chorus. After fifteen minutes of discussing aberrations in the female Lethe anthedon that mimicked L. creole, Grissom had suddenly realized that Warrick had slipped away. But Gris hadn't worried. His imagination hadn't run wild. He hadn't speculated about which lovely lass Warrick might be dancing with or which handsome gentleman he might be laughing with. No. Gris had merely shrugged, silently wished his boyfriend well, and continued talking lepidoptera.  

Around 3:00 in the morning, the temperature had finally driven Gris and his fellow bug buddies indoors. To Grissom's absolute surprise and delight, Warrick was seated at the piano. A feat due entirely to the persuasive powers of Julia Davis, because Gris knew his boyfriend felt uncomfortable playing in public. It was an aversion Grissom could not understand. After all, Warrick loved to play. Musically gifted, creative, and skilled, he derived pleasure and satisfaction from the music itself. So, Gris reasoned, shouldn't the presence or absence of an audience be irrelevant? Even now, lying on the bed in Hotel Blue, Grissom shook his head. 

Well, audience or no, Warrick had played beautifully. He'd improvised tunes from Alicia Keys, Bob Marley, and, yes, even Puccini. Then Warrick had played some of his own compositions. Including "For Double G," an amazing piece he'd written for his boyfriend. And the audience Warrick hadn't looked for had applauded in awe. 

So where had Grissom been during this concert? He'd found a spot in a leather armchair a few feet away where he could watch Warrick in profile, long fingers stroking the keys, muscular body swaying to the beat. A sly rendition of "You Don't Own Me," a soulful version of "I Get a Kick out of You," a funky rendering of "Che gelida manina."At some point Gris realized that he hadn't noticed all the young women gathered close around the piano, the young men staring enviously from across the room. He'd been so focused on Warrick and his music that Gris hadn't felt even a twinge of jealousy. Lips pursed, he'd admitted to himself that the horrific vision of losing his boyfriend had completely overwhelmed the green eyed monster.  
 

With that realization, Gris had simply relaxed and enjoyed the rest of the party. He'd located the bottle of Rodney Strong Alexander's Crown Cabernet and explored the book shelves lining the hallway leading to the kitchen.  

When he'd re-entered the Davis's giant living room, a book of cowboy poetry in one hand, wine glass full of cabernet in the other, Grissom had toasted his boyfriend with a happy, lopsided grin. Green eyes glowing even brighter, Warrick had quickly segued into a rhapsody on a theme of "Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road." And Gris hadn't even noticed the stares as he alone laughed out loud. 

For the rest of the early morning, he'd lounged on a leather couch in the giant living room reading poems from The Big Roundup and listening to his beautiful boyfriend play the piano. 

Back in his hotel room on the fourth floor of Hotel Blue, Grissom stretched, breathed in deep, and watched dust motes dancing from curtain to ceiling. He really should get out of bed, brush his teeth, get dressed. Be ready to go wherever Warrick wanted. They had a three o'clock tee time at the Paa-Ko Ridge Golf Club, but Warrick would probably want to do some sight seeing or shopping before then. Another deep breath. Well, maybe later. Gris closed his eyes. For now he wanted to remember the way Warrick looked when he played.  

Joy and love unrestrained. Handsome face glowing. Green eyes alight. God. And the power, the power of Warrick's playing. The power of his hands and arms and shoulders. The power of music and charisma and beauty. And, to be quite honest, lust. 

Grissom's breath hitched as he felt his cock begin to swell. He bit his bottom lip and thought about waiting, but oh god he'd been waiting two weeks now.  

Another deep breath, another hesitation, and then he slipped his right hand from behind his head and under the covers. Slowly his hand teased down his chest and stomach. Through the soft cotton of his sleep pants, strong fingers brushed the outline of his cock. From tip to base. And back again. Then he pressed the heel of his hand along his cock. Oh, god! Sweet friction. 

"Hnnn," he groaned. 

He imagined his boyfriend's long fingers, musician's skilled fingers, sliding under his waist band, brushing past his cock, gathering his balls, rolling and squeezing them. Squeezing them just to the edge of pain. His hips lifted from the bed. His thighs and calves tightened. His toes spread. 

"Ohhhh." 

He gripped his own cock. His fingers raked up and down. His thumb swirled precum over the head. Thinking, dreaming. Ah, Warrick, yes, please.  

Please let me.  

Yes, Gris imagined it. Warrick stretched out on the bed. Stretched out on his stomach. Face transported. Long arms and legs tense with anticipation. Hips arched. Beautiful ass waiting, wanting, welcoming.  

"Yesssss." 

Yes. One day. One day Warrick would break through his reluctance. Come to grips with whatever fear or worry or pretense was holding him back. It would be Warrick's choice. Grissom would never push. He would never nag. No. And if Warrick never chose? Gris would still live, still stay, still love. But he would also dream. And in his dreams he would sink slowly into his boyfriend's muscular, tight, silken ass.  

"Huhhhhhh." 

Grissom was so close. He had to ease off. Had to at least pull his sleep pants down. His only pair for the trip, and he could just imagine the teasing he'd get from Warrick if they were hung out to dry when he got back to the room. With a gulping breath, Gris reached his left hand down to help ease down his pants.  

And then he heard familiar footsteps outside. Oh dear. Caught between embarrassment and lechery, he heard the automatic lock on the door disengage. His proclivity for privacy took over. Both hands were back up behind his head when the door opened. 

"Hey, baby." 

"Hey," Gris rasped, his voice still thick with arousal. He blinked at the bright sunlight spilling in through the open door. 

With a tasty grin and sinful eyes, Warrick double checked that the Do Not Disturb sign still hung on the outside handle then closed and deadbolted the door. 

"Been awake long?" 

Gris glanced at the clock radio. "About fifteen minutes." 

"Huh." Warrick took off his shades and gazed down with a hungry, appraising look. The thin sheet and blanket failed to disguise Grissom's erection. But Warrick didn't move to take advantage. Perhaps his eyes hadn't yet adjusted to the hotel room's dim light? Or perhaps he was purposefully ignoring his boyfriend's plight to heighten the tension. For whatever reason, Warrick ignored the pup tent below Grissom's waist, and sat down on the bed, right foot resting on left knee.  
 

"I got Nick hooked up with the suicide squad. Boy's probably jumping off Sandia Crest as we speak." 

"How is Young Daedelus this morning?" Gris willed his voice to normal, to ignore his importunate cock. 

"Didn't sleep a wink." Warrick shook his head. "We're gonna have to spring Drool Ugly from the puppy hotel early. Only decent night's sleep Nick's had since he got out of the hospital was sharing a bed with that mutt. Must be something soporific about doggie breath." 

"Well, most sleep studies advocate not sleeping with a pet. Few animals consolidate sleep into one long, unbroken period like most humans do." 

"Yeah? Pets can disturb your sleep?" Green eyes flashed. Coral colored lips quirked. "I sleep just fine with my pet." Warrick reached out and lightly scratched Grissom's tummy. 

"Very funny," Gris huffed. 

Warrick kicked off his sandals, squinted, and leaned in toward his pet. "You still wearing your wolf?" 

The fetish necklace felt so natural, Gris had to feel for the leather cord looped around his neck. "Yes."  

"Huh. You wore it to the Opera last night?" 

"Of course. It seemed particularly appropriate." 

"Appropriate, huh? Why? You hunting big game at the Opera?" 

"No. I thought it appropriate to wear a symbol of the canis lupus to Turandot." A teasing grin spread slowly on Grissom's face. 

"Uh huh." Warrick knew something was coming, but he didn't make the connection. 

"You know, the composer?" Gris prompted. "Turandot? An opera written by . . . Pooch-ini." 

Warrick's jaw dropped. "Boyfriend, you did not just say that." 

And that reaction just egged Gris on. "I'll wear it to the next production of Rossini's 'The Barker of Seville'." 

"Oh my lord," Warrick groaned, laughed, and shook a warning finger at his boyfriend. "Stop it. Now." 
 

Yeah. Right.  

"And Christmas, we can't miss Handel's Messiah." A quick beat. "And the 'Howl-leluia Chorus.'" 

"Damn, that's it!" Laughing, Warrick quickly climbed up the bed, straddled his boyfriend, and tried to clamp a large hand over Grissom's mouth. But Gris held him off, grabbing his wrists, both men laughing their asses off. 

"Fido and Aeneas!" 

"Shut up!" 

"Turandog!" 

"Stop it!" 

"The Flying Dachshund!" 

Warrick gave up trying to cover Grissom's mouth with a hand and used lips instead.  

Softer than goose down pillows, full lips stopped the puns but not the laughter. Slowly, though, the men's laughter gave way to muffled chuckles then to soft groans. Their lips sliding and nibbling one another, tongues licking and teasing one another.  

Letting go of Warrick's wrists, Gris grabbed the back of his boyfriend's head, digging strong fingers into soft springy curls. Grissom cinched an arm around Warrick's waist, pulling him even closer. Kisses neither dainty nor delicate, but full-bodied and strong, like the difference between pop music and, well, Puccini. The need to breathe was the only reason they parted. 

Warrick sat back, grinding his ass down on Grissom's turgid cock. 

"Oh, god!" 

"Time to get naked, baby," Warrick rumbled, pulling his short-sleeve polo shirt over his head. Grissom helped by running strong fingers underneath the hem and over defined abs. He rubbed and squeezed chocolate-colored nipples. 

"Hunnh, yeah," Warrick moaned. 

Smooth skin glistened. Lovely shades of brown ranging from caramel to dark cocoa. How odd that Grissom thought of Warrick's body in terms of food. Blue eyes widened and pink lips quirked. But then, maybe not so odd. Gris loved running his tongue all over his boyfriend's body, loved sampling his salt sweetness, loved nibbling his soft skin and hair. 
 

"You're thinking too much." Warrick grabbed the hem of Grissom's sleep tee shirt, pulled it up and over his head, tossed it on the floor, then hunched over and latched on to rose brown nipples, one caught between hard teeth, the other between long fingers. 

"Jesus!"  

Grissom grabbed his boyfriend's muscular ass and bucked hard against him. Hard cock and balls rubbing through fabric. God it felt good. The pleasure racing from nipples to cock to balls and back. Like fiery waves blitzing his nervous system. Nearing climax fast. Too fast. His sleep pants would be a mess. 

"Warrick, stop! Pants off!" 

But Warrick was too busy licking and rubbing, sucking and pinching, biting and twisting Grissom's nipples. His erotic trigger points. One of the fastest--if not the fastest--ways to make him explode. 

Strong fingers locked onto Warrick's head, Gris pushed. "Stop! Please! Anima!" 

Wicked sea green eyes looked up from his chest. "You're close to coming, aren't you, baby?" 

Sweating, panting, blue eyes wide as the sky, Gris nodded. Pleading. 

A grin as wicked as sea green eyes. "What are you gonna do to stop me?" 

Confusion overlay ecstasy. "Wh-what am I . . . ? I'm going to do what I just did. Ask you to stop." 

Warrick flicked his tongue over Grissom's left nipple. 

"God!" 

"What if I don't want to stop?" 

"I'll come in my pants!" Gris whined. Unbidden, the muscles in his ass contracted, driving his cock hard against Warrick. "Please!" 

Opening then shutting his oh so kissable mouth, as if there was something he wanted to say but didn't know how to say it, Warrick shook his head. "I meant . . . " he sighed. "Okay, baby, maybe later." 

"Not later!" Grissom's ass and thigh muscles quivered, everything quivered trying not to shoot cum into his sleep pants. "Please, anima, now!" 
 

"I meant . . . oh, the hell with it."  

Warrick jumped off the bed and yanked sheet and blanket down to the carpet. He skinned out of his baggy shorts and boxers as Gris took care of his infuriating sleep pants. 

And then the two men were together, wound around each other, hot mouths on hot cocks, muscled arms and legs squeezing and hugging, strong fingers touching, smoothing, gripping, clawing. The muffled sounds of purrs and hums and groans and moans.  

Warrick's long, saliva-slickened fingers pierced Grissom, stroked him inside and out, fucked him crazy. Tight lips skidded up and down his cock. Skilled tongue swiped the head and then teased the base. Gris reached the apex. Nerves and muscles overloading. 

Oh god. Oh yes. Now! Coming. He was coming, coming, coming. 

That long, bright burst of darkness, then his slack mouth slid off Warrick's rampant cock. Gris vaguely heard a fretful groan then felt himself flipped over onto his belly, his legs kneed open. He heard fumbling at the end table drawer, next felt cool lubricant spread between his ass cheeks, smeared inside and out. Then that rampant cock pushed inside. And Gris was ready. So relaxed, so wet that his boyfriend's cock easily slipped inside. 

And while Gris breathed, Warrick fucked. His hips powered forward and back. Slap slap slapping Grissom's ass. The sound hot enough to make him come again. As if he could possibly come again. 

At last gathering the energy, Gris looked back over his shoulder and watched his boyfriend's expressive face: eyes scrunched closed, nostrils flared, lips pinched. Focused, purposeful, but straining. Warrick supporting his weight on outstretched quivering arms. Racing for his climax. Grissom tightened the muscles in his ass to help. 

"Damn, baby," Warrick gasped. His brow furrowed. He sucked his bottom lip in and bit down. His hips plunged ever faster. "Let me hear you!" 

"Kiss me," Grissom croaked and stretched toward Warrick. "Anima, kiss me!" 

"Oh! Oh!" Warrick shouted, struggling forward. 

One final twisting stretch and Grissom brushed his lips against Warrick's. 

"Baby!" Warrick cried. "Holy fuck! Baby!"  He froze in one searing, pulsing moment. Mouth open, eyes closed, body stiff. And then he dissolved. His intensity drained into languor. Slack jaw, hooded eyes, drooping head. His quivering arms gave way. His full weight collapsed on Grissom's broad back. 

But Gris didn't mind. In fact, he welcomed the hot gasping breaths on the back of his neck, heavy chest sweating against his back, sticky cum rapidly cooling between his legs. Oh, yes. 

Once again the goofy grin stretched across his face. Now that was fun. Honest to god fun.  

"Let's not wait two weeks next time," Grissom yawned, but all he heard was his boyfriend's gentle snores.

 

******

Part 2: Albuquerque to Dallas 
 

Early the next morning, Friday, July 8th, with Hank happily sprung from the kennel, Nick safely down from the mountain, and Warrick and Gris reluctantly parted from their bed, the Lexus roared out of downtown Albuquerque and headed east on Interstate 40. Winding through the pass leading out of the southern end of the Rocky Mountains, the car and its passengers emerged out onto the western edge of the Great Plains. But before they'd gone twenty miles, they had to stop. 

"Dang it, Hank! Stop chewing the front seat!" Nick snapped. 

Warrick glared into the rearview mirror at his best friend. "Nick, I am not loving this mutt. He's been after my man and my fine automobile ever since we saved his mangy ass in Gallup." 

"Pull over. I'll swap places with Nick," Gris said. Damn. He'd finally gotten his chance to sit beside Warrick in the front seat, but Hank had other ideas. Ever since they'd gotten in the car, the dog had been trying to get into Grissom's lap. When Nick stopped Hank leaping over the front seat, the pup protested by gnawing on the head rest. 

"No, no, it's okay," Nick protested. "He'll settle down soon." 

"When the hell's the Dramamine supposed to kick in?" Warrick fumed. 

"Uh, well, that only helps keep him from throwing up in the car. In case he's susceptible to motion sickness. Not every dog gets sleepy." 

"You're shitting me. I got a forty pound cousin to a wolf in the back seat, and you forgot to buy tranquilizers?!" 

"Warrick," Grissom used his softest but most commanding voice. Angry green eyes turned his way. "Pull over." 
 

"Shit." Resentment in every motion, Warrick flipped on the right blinker light and steered the Lexus over onto the shoulder. He put the vehicle in park and set the flashers. 

"Sorry, guys," Nick said as Gris unbuckled his seat belt. 

"Yeah, yeah." Warrick drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. 

Grissom slid out the front seat into cool morning air. A brief, if welcome, respite considering that the low seventies would quickly skyrocket back to the mid-nineties again. He waited by the back door while Nick secured the leash around his wrist. Good thing, too, because once the door opened, Hank tried to bolt for the seductive smells of the countryside, dragging Nicky head first behind him. 

But before Nick had to pick gravel, stickers, and broken glass out of his face, Gris grabbed Hank's harness and stopped him dead.  

"Hank. Sit," Grissom commanded, shoving the dog's hindquarters to the pavement. "Stay." 

The young boxer blinked, whined, shifted, but stayed. 

Shakily, Nick climbed out of the car. He adjusted his baseball cap, straightened his t shirt, pulled up his shorts. Then he handed the end of the leash over to Gris. "I don't get it. He won't do squat for me." 

"You need to show Hank you're the alpha dog," Gris said, just a touch smugly. "Show confidence that you're the leader." 

"Heh," Warrick grinned from inside. "Yo, Nick, learn from Gris. He's had lots of practice being alpha dog, dealing with crazy mutts like you and Greg all the time." 

"Yeah?" Nick shot back. "More like he's busy dealing with . . . drooling dawgs, if you get my drift." 

"I drool only on command, Nicky boy." 

A growl of disgust, and Nick huffed his way into the front seat.  

Still as patience itself, Grissom waited, testing Hank's obedience, ignoring Warrick and Nick sniping at each other. And at last Hank calmed down, panting softly but no longer fidgeting. Gris slowly slid into the back seat. Again he waited. The dog whimpered and fussed, squirmed and twitched but didn't stand up. 

"How long is this gonna take, baby?" 
 

"As long as it takes." 

"I knew he was gonna say that," Nick said. 

"Then perhaps you're learning something after all." Gris said it kindly, an almost smile on his face. He tried to make clear to his boyfriend, and especially Nick, that it was only friendly teasing. Evidently, they understood. 

"Hoo! Two points!" Warrick grinned at his best friend, nudged him in the ribs.  

Nick nudged back. "Hey, Rick, at least I can learn." 

Trucks and cars rumbled past while Warrick and Nick waited on Gris, and Gris waited on Hank. The satellite radio boomed big band music: Count Basie and Benny Goodman, Billie Holiday and Anita O'Day, Billy Eckstein and Frank Sinatra. When Sarah Vaughan sang "I'll Wait and Pray," Nick and Warrick got the giggles while Gris smirked in the back seat.  

At last the dog realized he wasn't getting back inside the car until he behaved himself. With a dramatic shake of his big head, slinging strings of drool in all directions, Hank finally stilled. His neck and shoulders relaxed and he began sniffing the air with the focus of a dedicated scientist. 

A pleased smile. A few more moments to test the pup's resolve, then Gris spoke, "Hank." 

Floppy ears perked to attention. The young boxer stood rigid and stared at Grissom. 

"Come." 

Gleeful relief! Hank climbed over Grissom and into the Lexus, did half a donut, then stretched out across the back seat, head landing thankfully in his lap. Gris looked up to see his amused boyfriend and boyfriend's best friend gazing back. 

A raised eyebrow. "Well," Grissom shrugged."Hank and I had some time to kill while you two went to see 'Revenge of the Sith' last night." 

Nick's dark eyes narrowed. "Three hours," and he turned to face Warrick. "It took your boyfriend only three hours to alienate the affections of my dog." 

Warrick snapped a wicked, wicked grin. "Hey, buddy, when the man says 'come' . . . " 

Nick flushed bright red. His jaw dropped open. Even Grissom was momentarily speechless. Ah, but his boyfriend did have a flair for the outrageous. 
 

While Nick cleared his throat and Warrick laughed, Gris shut the back door. Then he leaned back into the leather seats of the powerful Lexus, like a king leaning back in his gilded throne. A raised eyebrow and pursed lips. 

"Warrick," Gris commanded. "Drive." 

And with a barking laugh, Warrick did just that. 

****** 

Thirty minutes later, they stopped again. Cline's Corners had plenty of hype and not much substance. Big red and yellow billboards led up to a collection of squat buildings. A gas station, restaurant, restrooms, and one giant gift shop.  

"Told you not to drink all that coffee at breakfast," Warrick chastised Nick when he got back to the car. Warrick and Gris leaned up against the Lexus drinking bottled water and stretching their legs while Hank stretched out across the back seat. 

Swinging a large yellow plastic bag, Nick serenely ignored Warrick. "Y'all need to check out the gift shop. I found a ton of cool gifts for the nieces and nephews." 

Gris sent a curious look Warrick's way. 

"No, baby, we aren't expected to bring anything except the anniversary present. So what kind of gifts we talking about, Nicky?" 

"Gifts to entertain the younguns and aggravate the fire out of their parents. Nothing like four and five year olds with tom-toms and supersoakers." 

Warrick chuckled while Grissom wondered why Nick would want to aggravate the fire out of his brothers and sisters. 

Nick squeezed the plastic bag into the trunk then opened the back door and grabbed Hank's leash. "Hey, y'all go to the gift shop; I'll walk Hank." 

Once Hank realized what was happening, he jumped out of the back seat and took off, jerking Nick along. 

"More like Hank's gonna walk you," Warrick said. 

"Nick, act confident," Grissom advised. "You're the alpha dog." But the dog had already yanked Nick straight for the few scraggly trees on the property. 

"Baby, I don't think Hank agrees with you." 

Exchanging sly smiles with his boyfriend, Gris bobbed his head in the direction of the biggest squat building. "Gift shop?" 

"A big ugly building full of cheap useless shit?" Warrick grinned. "Oh, yeah." 

Though not as large as Bonanza Gift and Souvenirs in Vegas, Cline's Corners displayed its own brand of tacky Americana. Leather moccasins and rubber tomahawks. Plastic six guns and felt cowboy hats. And the world's most extensive collection of scorpion, tarantula, and rattlesnake head paperweights. Ah, heaven! 

"Damn," Warrick shivered and shot down another aisle. 

With a shake of his head and a longing sigh, Gris watched his boyfriend lope away, long legs swinging effortlessly. The man with the motion of the ocean in his walk.  

Watching until Warrick disappeared behind a display of gaudy bird baths continually refreshed by urinating concrete cupids, Grissom at last turned his attention back to the paperweight tarantulas. Aphonopelma chalcodes held suspended forever in lucite. There were a few other species as well: Eurypelma californicum, Dugesiella hentzi, even a Brachypelma smithii. And a dozen different scorpions. Unfortunately he didn't see any representative of a species he didn't already own, so he wandered past garish tee shirts and cheap turquoise jewelry in search of his boyfriend. 

Gris found Warrick holding a round-cheeked doll with long dark braids. The doll was dressed in fringed buckskin and a feathered headband. A cartoonish depiction of a Native American. And Warrick had the oddest look on his face.  

"What's wrong?" 

"Man, Gris, I feel like I just stepped back into my childhood." At an inquisitive eyebrow, Warrick continued, "These dolls. I'd swear they were the same ones I used to see in Arizona. When Grams, Aunt Bertha, and me would go to Phoenix to rendezvous with the Jacksons. Grams's people. My great uncles and great aunts and second cousins." 

Blue eyes blinked. Oh, god. "There are more relatives?" 

"Heh. You know, you react to my relatives the same way I react to your spiders." 

"Yeah, but spiders aren't as deadly," Gris smirked. 

Green eyes narrowed. "You do know that Nicky's family is just about as big as mine." 

Grissom swallowed. "I'll cope." 
 

"Uh huh." The disbelief in Warrick's voice drew a scowl from Grissom. The scowl drew a bright dimpled grin from Warrick. "You take many road trips when you were a kid?" 

Watching Warrick set the doll back on the shelf, Gris said, "No. Mary Grace didn't drive." His deaf mother. A painter and an owner of an art gallery but not permitted by California law to drive in the 1960s.  

Warrick frowned. Probably more at the mention of Mary Grace than at Gris missing out on road trips. Warrick held no affection for Grissom's estranged mother. But before his boyfriend began to dwell on Mary Grace, Gris blurted, "My Uncle Herb and his second wife took me to Sequoia National Forest when I was ten." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yes. Uncle Herb thought I needed more contact with a regular guy." 

Thank god. The dimpled grin broke out like sunshine. "Why's that? Artists aren't regular guys?" 

"Not to a plumber." 

"Yeah, I can see that." Warrick picked up an elastic headband patterned with bright plastic beads. "What did his second wife think?" 

"She thought I needed to be around a regular guy, too. Until she found the dead banana slugs I hid in the cooler. I'd planned to dissect them at the cabin in Three Rivers that night." 

The headband snapped back into the bin. "Oh, man! If I'd done that, Grams and Aunt Bertha would've taken turns busting my butt." 

"I had to bleach and restock the cooler. And swear never to pick up dead animals around Aunt Hattie." 

Warrick shook his head. "That the last time you road tripped with Uncle Herb and Aunt Hattie?" 

"Oh yeah." 

The grin dimmed a little. "Too bad for them." 

Grissom shrugged. "Well, after that, Uncle Herb picked me up after school a couple of times a week. I'd help him with plumbing jobs, catch spiders and beetles, fish out dead rodents he couldn't reach. It was educational. He died when I was twelve." 
 

"Damn," Warrick shook his head and put his large, gentle hand on Grissom's shoulder. Green eyes grew solemn. Blue eyes grew confused. How could Warrick feel so deeply about someone he'd never met? 

"Well," Gris said, shifting uncomfortably. "Maybe we'd better resume our own road trip?" 

The large hand squeezed his shoulder. Green eyes brightened. "Yeah. Hey, I better not catch you sneaking any road kill into the cooler so you can dissect it later." 

"I'm unlikely to find a unique species I'd want to dissect," he sniffed. 

"Heh. More likely Hank would eat it before you could dissect it." 

****** 

They left Cline's Corners at 8:00, said hello to Santa Rosa and U.S. 84--and good-bye to Interstate 40--at 8:45. At a quarter after 9:00 they stopped for a quick snack, a bathroom break, a gas up, and a walk around Billy the Kid's grave outside of Fort Sumner. Much to Grissom's disappointment, they drove past the rattlesnake museum. By 10:00 they arrived on the outskirts of Clovis, a town consisting of the local Air Force base, the Santa Fe rail yards, and not much else. 

The mountains of Nevada, Arizona, and New Mexico were a distant memory. The landscape was as flat and brown as a griddle. About as sizzling, too. 

"I had a buddy who graduated from Texas Tech in Lubbock, about another hundred miles on up the road," Nick said, peering at the never ending horizon. "He said it was so flat, you could look into the distance and see the back of your head. I always thought he was joking." 

"Giants in the Earth," Grissom said. 

Warrick and Nick looked at each other as Gris waited for them to recognize the reference. When they didn't, he continued. "O.E. Rolvaag's classic novel. Per Hansa, his wife Beret, and their three children migrate from Norway to the Dakota Territory." 

"Happy ending?" Nick said. 

"Not particularly. Per Hansa goes mad in the end." 

Grissom unconsciously scratched behind Hank's ear. "Did you know that in 1863, the Homestead Act opened up much of the Great Plains for settlement? Well, for settlement by anyone who wasn't a Native American. Many of those early pioneers fell mentally ill. They were used to hills and woods not just grass and sky. Doctors called the phenomenon 'Prairie Madness.' They believed that isolation coupled with an unceasing wailing wind drove people insane." 
 

"Huh," Warrick shook his head then grinned into the rear view mirror. "Little Nut House on the Prairie." 

Once they crossed the state line into Texas, they lost an hour. So it was 11:30 when they stopped at the tiny community of Muleshoe. No way was Grissom going to let them just drive by the National Mule Monument. While Hank happily christened the fiberglass mule's wooden pedestal, Nick snapped a photo of a pleased Grissom and an indulgent Warrick. 

"So if this is the mule," Warrick said, "where the hell's my forty acres?" 

"Pardner, for your sake, I hope they ain't around here," Nick muttered. 

The three men and the dog passed through the tiny communities of Littlefield--"Damn. All I can see's a big ass field"--and Shallowater--"Looks more like No water to me"--and finally, a little before 1:00, made it into the small city of Lubbock. 

"Stay on 84 until we get to University Avenue, then take a right," Nick said, looking up from the crumpled Mapquest directions. "My buddy told me if ever I got to Lubbock to grab a burger and fried okra at Spanky's." 

"Fried okra?" Warrick said. "And here I was thinking this place had no redeeming qualities at all." 

"That better not be sarcasm, buddy. Fried okra is sacred in these parts." 

"Yeah. Picture that." 

Nick shrugged and glanced back at Gris. "I reckon we can get stuff to go and have a picnic with Hank on the campus." 

Right across from the Texas Tech campus, they found Spanky's, a small two-story cinder block building with outdoor patios on both levels. A perfect college hang out judging by all the young men and women in t shirts and shorts and the smell of fried food and beer. Lucky it was the summer because the place would probably be packed on a Friday afternoon during a regular semester. 

When Warrick parked, Hank was ready to go. Really ready. Judging by the whimpering, the dog needed relief fast. And Gris needed to stretch his cramped legs. 

"I think Hank wants to visit the campus sooner than later. We'll take a walk while you guys order," Grissom said. 

"Gris, I can do that," Nick said, reaching for the leash. 
 

Trying not to look superior, and failing, Grissom said, "I think Hank needs a more disciplined hand at the moment, Nicky."  

He turned before he saw the hurt look on Nick's face and the disappointed one on Warrick's. 

As Gris and Hank started across the broad four lane avenue, Nick shouted, "Hey, wait a minute! What do you want?" 

But before Grissom could answer, Warrick said, "Whatever we get him, Nicky."  

Well, Warrick certainly knew his boyfriend's tastes by now. 

Once on the other side of University Avenue, Hank doused a strip of yellow-green bermuda grass caught between the curb and a giant parking lot. As Gris steered toward what looked like a dormitory, Hank marked a water sprinkler, a no parking sign, a handicap only parking sign, a fire hydrant, and a crape myrtle bush. He woofed at a ground squirrel but didn't chase it.  

"Good dog," Grissom praised.  

Last night in Albuquerque Hank had tried to attack a gray squirrel--a big, bold fellow who casually ignored the dog and continued hunting last autumn's pecans buried in the earth. Gris had quickly taught Hank that he had to have permission before he could chase something little, fast, and furry. "Infurryating" as it was, Grissom smiled to himself. Turning away from temptation had been a hard lesson to learn. Of course that didn't mean Hank hadn't stared, snapped his jaws, and shook his head at the impudent rodent. 

So while Hank gave the evil eye to the tiny Lubbock ground squirrel scampering into the juniper bushes, Grissom scanned for a picnic spot. So far where there was shade, there was no place to sit. Where there were places to sit, there was no shade. It was odd really. Campus seating seemed for ornament only: beautiful granite and concrete benches roasting in the full sun. Perhaps the truly functional outside picnic spots lay elsewhere on campus. 

Past the brown brick three-story dormitory, cutting across wide lawns, Gris and the dog were heading toward the football stadium when his cell phone played the tune to "At Last." Gris smiled. That meant Warrick was on the line. 

"Grissom," he answered out of habit. 

"Heh. Baby, you know we're off the clock, now, right?" Gris shrugged and waited for his boyfriend to continue. "Good news. Hank the Tank can join us on the patio." 

"Good. Be right there."  
 

"Better hurry. Fried okra's gonna go fast."  

"Right." Somehow Grissom was willing to let the fried okra go fast.  

Pity to have to cut Hank's walk short. Even though it was in the mid-90s and boxers as a rule tended to wear out fast in high heat, Hank seemed to be enjoying the exercise. Gris whistled and tugged the leash. "Come on, boy."  

But as Hank spun, he spotted another ground squirrel. He forgot his training. He leapt lightning quick after the tiny kin to a chipmunk, and Gris hit the sidewalk.  

"Fuck!" Gris spat as he bounced on concrete. "Hank! Stop!" 

Oh no. Hank had the little brown squirrel dead to rights. Barking, growling, bawling. Scraping Grissom along the sidewalk. 

Gris dug in his toes and elbows, feeling skin shredding off his arms. "Hank! Godammit! Stop!" 

Thankfully the ground squirrel dived into a hole right next to the sidewalk. And that was the only reason Hank the Tank stopped. To be honest, Gris didn't care why the dog stopped. Just that he stopped. Hank's snout covered the hole, snuffling up every smell it could catch. His long tail whipped side to side, his big paws stamped the ground. 

In the mean time, Gris did a quick self inventory. Nothing broken. Nothing pulled. That was the good news. The bad news? His forearms ached. His elbows bled. His knees stung. His pride hurt. And the prospect of total humiliation in the grins of Warrick and Nick lay just across the street at Spanky's. Shit. So much for a more disciplined hand. So much for being the alpha dog. 

Several deep breaths and a few Buddhist chants later, Gris pushed himself to his feet. He looked around at the brilliant blue sky and the hard brown earth and centered himself. He was the alpha dog. He was the one in control. With one more check for balance he squatted next to Hank. Strong, steady, unmovable, he grabbed the dog by the scruff of the neck. 

"Hank," Grissom growled. 

The young boxer looked up doe-eyed, ground squirrel and smelly burrow immediately forgotten.  "Oh, shit" written plainly in Hank's submissive stance. 

By the time they got back to Spanky's, they both knew who the alpha dog was. And it sure wasn't Hank. 

****** 
 

The closer Nick got to Dallas, the jumpier he got. So jumpy that even Grissom noticed. 

"We can always turn around and head back to Las Vegas," Gris said, handing Nick a double scoop of Cappuccino Chunky Chocolate. It was not only scorching but humid now at 5:30 on Friday afternoon. They'd stopped at the Braum's Ice Cream store in Weatherford, seventy miles short of their final destination. Warrick and Nick had wanted a snack; Gris and Hank had needed to pee. 

"I'm okay. Just a little . . . anxious," Nick said with a shake of his head. He took the cold paper cup full of melting ice cream and handed over Hank's leash. More as a precaution, really. Either the heat, the humidity, the Dramamine, or maybe the extended re-education session in Lubbock had finally caught up with the dog. He lay belly down, four legs splayed, snoozing in the shade of an enormous live oak. Even the arrival of Cappuccino Chunky Chocolate didn't raise a sleepy eyelid. 

"Anxious about what?" 

Shrugging, Nick spooned up soupy ice cream.  

Clinical blue eyes studied him. "Your family understands what you've been through." 

"Gris, it's . . . I don't . . ." Nick looked pleadingly past Grissom's right ear. No doubt hoping that Warrick would walk out Braum's front door and rescue his best friend. But Warrick was still inside trying to decide between peppermint stick and butter brickle. 

"Nick?" 

A big breath. "Yeah. They do. I get a call from somebody every day. Two brothers, three sisters, two parents. Everybody's got their assigned day of the week." 

"I'm sure it's not a chore." 

"It's not that. Well, not exactly that. We've always been close, stayed in contact but not . . . not this much contact." Nick rubbed the back of his neck. His feet shifted. His dark eyes studied the ground. His stance radiated tension. "Look, I'm . . . I'm tired. I'm tired of them treating me different." 

"Different how?" 

"Babying me," he snapped. 

"Then don't let them." 
 

Nick's lips curled in cynical disbelief. "Simple as that." 

Grissom nodded then glanced down at Hank. The dog had started to snore. Good. He felt safe enough to snore. And that gave Gris an idea. "Did you know that African hunting dogs regurgitate food to feed their young?" 

By now Nick was used to Grissom's non sequiturs. "So do most birds." 

"Yes. But unlike birds, the dog pack takes care of its sick and injured adults, too. In fact, the pack takes care of them the same way they take care of their young."  

A deep sigh. A long pause. Then a tentative grin. "Grissom, are you callin' my family a pack of wild dogs?" 

A quirk of pink lips. "Of course not. I don't know your family that well, yet." Nick's grin expanded, and Gris continued, "I think you know what I mean." 

Nick nodded. "Social animals care for one another by helping each other. Sometimes by babying the sick or wounded. Until the sick or injured adult can rejoin the hunt." 

Before Gris could respond, a long arm landed across his shoulders. Warrick. Looking fine in a pale orange linen camp shirt and khaki shorts. A slow, easy smile on his handsome face. He looked as tasty as his peppermint stick ice cream cone. 

"So you ready to rejoin the hunt, buddy?" Warrick said. 

Nick shrugged. "Man, I . . . I sure hope so. I . . ." He fell silent. Obviously deep in thought, his dark brown eyes studied the ground as he spooned up more Cappuccino Chunky Chocolate. Meanwhile Warrick teased his boyfriend by slowly and skillfully licking peppermint stick ice cream. Gris was already sweating rivers from the heat. The sight of the teasing tongue was about to bust the dam. He quivered on the brink of running back into Braum's and throwing himself into the freezer when Nick spoke. 

"You know, if I can survive being around my family for a couple of days, I think I can make it through anything." He glanced up at Grissom's red sweating face. "Gris, you okay?" 

Grissom took a deep breath and looked away from his sinful boyfriend. "Nick, not to make light of your predicament, but if I can survive being around your family for a couple of days, I know you can, too." 

The bright grin Grissom was used to seeing on Nick's face blossomed. Perhaps? Yes. Perhaps this was what being a friend was all about?  
 

Slowly Gris reached out to touch Nick but stopped. A nod and a nudge from his boyfriend, and Grissom completed his gesture of friendship, lightly patting Nick on the shoulder. The young man shivered but didn't blanch, didn't run away. Good. 

"Thus speaks the alpha dog," Warrick teased, green eyes glowing, throwing his other arm around Nick's shoulders. It was an awkward three-way embrace, but it was held firmly together by friendship, respect, and love. 

****** 

"Not much farther now, Rick. Look for the Texas A & M maroon-red fence." 

A little after 7:00 Friday evening, the Lexus was speeding east on Farm to Market Road 1387. The summer sun still shone brightly and would for a couple more hours.  

They'd skirted Metroplex rush hour traffic, slowed through the small burg of Midlothian, and choked past its dusty cement plants. They were thirty miles south of Dallas. But there was a good reason for that. 

"Mom and Dad spend every weekend they can down here at the ranch. Something about the great outdoors to refresh the judicial mind," Nick said. 

"Heh," Warrick snorted. "Buddy, we both know they're out here 'cause your mama's a bonafide cowgirl. You know that, Gris?" Green eyes flashed wickedly in the rear view mirror. "Jillian Stokes, senior attorney, Office of Public Defender, Dallas County, punched dogies growing up." 

Grissom was impressed. He never would have suspected from the soft-spoken, well-dressed woman he'd gotten to know at Desert Palm Hospital that she was a cowgirl. But then he didn't know any other bonafide cowgirls for comparison.  

"Mom can still rope and tie a calf in under 20 seconds." 

"Hoo! Must have some seriously skittish cows when she walks out the back door with a rope in her hand." 

"Well, she only ropes a calf when she has to." 

"She's got to practice, though, right? What? She practice on the grandkids?" 

"Nah, only on knuckleheads from the big city," Nick grinned slyly, and Warrick laughed. 
 

Oh, dear. The erotic image of Warrick trussed up and defenseless and needing release was not one Grissom needed just before meeting Nick's family. He took a deep breath and stared out the window. 

To eyes accustomed to rock, sand, and sagebrush, the north central Texas prairie looked positively lush. Lazy, sun-beaten hills still held enough moisture to support hardy grasses and dense woods of pecan, live oak, ash, and mulberry. This portion of the prairie was a neighborhood of weekend or commuter ranches. Twenty or thirty acre spreads with expensive decorative fences and elaborate entrance gates. What surprised Grissom, though, was the presence of livestock. Outside Vegas you might spy horses on a rich man's ranch, but never cows, goats, and sheep. 

"There's the fence, now," Nick said, a tremor of excitement in his voice. Good. Better excitement than terror. 

Warrick deigned to drop their speed a few m.p.h. They paced the fence of dull red steel tubing for a quarter of a mile then Nick pointed up ahead and to the left, "Right up there. See the drive?" 

"Yeah, yeah, I got it, Nicky." Warrick deftly steered off smooth concrete onto the unpaved entryway to the Stokes' ranch. Twenty feet in front of them a simple steel gate barred their path. Grissom's lips quirked. The gates for the other properties he'd seen along FM 1387 had rivaled those at Versailles Palace: baroque grill work, massive brick gate posts. The Stokes' gate stood only chest high and barely spanned the width of a single lane dirt road. The little bit of flash was a rusty five-pointed star in the middle of the gate. No doubt a patriotic tribute to the Lone Star State. 

"Just be a sec," Nick released his seat belt and opened the passenger door. Despite the air conditioner cranking at full blast, the brutal hot blanket of central Texas humidity rushed in to smother them. 

"Dang," Nick wheezed, slowly swinging out of the Lexus. "I forget what it's like to breathe under water." 

Gris and Warrick nodded. The sweat that had been wicked away by the air conditioner now clung stubbornly to faces and backs, under arms and behind knees. Hank cracked open his eyes but that was all. His massive head refused to budge from Grissom's thigh.  

As Nick plodded to unlatch the gate, Warrick slowly swiveled to look at his boyfriend. Sparkling green eyes made Gris feel even hotter. "You sure you're ready for this, baby? Don't wanna go find ourselves a hotel room and hide out for a couple of days?" 

The question was purely rhetorical, so Grissom didn't answer. Warrick would never abandon Nick now--even if he seemed so much better. Even if he was being hand delivered into the protective bosom of his family.  
 

Warrick smiled at Grissom's non-answer. "Always knew you were a brave man." 

Brow furrowing, Gris quirked his head. He didn't consider himself a brave man. He could seem brave, but that was only when he was oblivious to danger. When he wasn't oblivious to danger, he sensibly ran away. No, Grissom didn't consider himself brave. Certainly not in the way his boyfriend was brave. Not when facing a gaggle of relatives.  

"Gate's open," Gris said. 

A wink, a brilliant smile, and Warrick drove them through the gate. He even waited to let Nicky get back inside the Lexus once he'd shut the gate. 

"Drive on, hoss," Nick grinned, gratefully getting reacquainted with the air conditioner. 

They bounced along the unpaved road up a slight incline, past groves of oak, pecan, and mesquite trees, glimpses of open pastures of gray-green grass and wild flowers. They topped the small hill and eased down the other side. They sloped by a small pasture with a stock pond and a real working windmill. A dozen white face Hereford cattle drank and chewed and dozed and ignored the Lexus. Along the way, they also saw horses, burros, goats, sheep, even a couple of llamas. 

"Neighborhood strays always seem to find their way here," Nick said. "Remember the emu craze  in the 90s? When we were all gonna give up beef and eat Big Bird? When it all went bust, lots of emu farmers just let the birds go. Mom and Dad took in nine or ten of them. They'd wander in one at a time. Half-starved. Dumb as shit. Kicked worse than a mule." 

Warrick shook his head. "Damn, Tex, you gonna talk like this all weekend?" 

A slow grin graced Nick's face. "Talk like what, pardner?" 

"Like Walker, Texas Ranger."   

"Oh, and when we get around your old neighborhood buddies, you don't talk different? You ain't got that Shaft vibe going?" 

"Hell, no," Warrick grinned wickedly. 

"Hah. No 'whassup, blood' or--" 

"Richard Roundtree never said 'whassup.'" 

"Hey, man, I'm talking the Samuel L. Jackson version." 
 

"Sam Jackson says 'motherfucker' not 'whassup.'" 

For once, instead of ignoring the two men as they teased each other--or feeling jealous as they teased each other--Gris studied them. Noted how they were so at ease. So sharing. So open. Feeling a twinge of sadness, he wished he knew instinctively how to be so open. How to be so sharing. But he didn't. He had to watch and learn to be a friend.  

Muhammad Ali once said, "Friendship is the hardest thing in the world to explain. It's not something you learn in school. But if you haven't learned the meaning of friendship, you really haven't learned anything." Grissom took a deep breath, determined to complete his education, to become a friend. Better to watch and learn than sulk and burn. 

As the Lexus curved around the base of the hill, they got their first glimpse of the ranch house: sprawling, two stories above ground, faced with brick and stone, and covered with a shiny silver metal roof.  

"Looks like new construction," Gris said. 

"Yeah. Mom and Dad completed the house a couple of years ago. Mom got tired of cramming five kids; four--well, make that three, now--kids' spouses; and nineteen grandkids into a four bedroom, two bathroom house." 

Nineteen?! Gris blinked. 

"Hey, baby, you look kinda stunned." Teasing green eyes laughed at him in the rearview mirror. 

"I-I-I--" 

"Yeah," Nick turned around, a sly grin on his face. "Nineteen grandkids. And only six of them have reached puberty." 

Grissom's mouth fell open. Dear god. He was headed straight into the ninth circle of hell, and it was too late to run away. 

****** 

The Lexus pulled off the unpaved trail onto a concrete driveway lined with Pampas grass and oak trees. They followed the curving driveway to the rear of the house, where the Lexus was the only sedan in sight. Every other vehicle was an SUV or a pickup. And then Gris looked beyond the parked trucks to the enormous grass backyard.  
 

Thirty Stokeses. All outside. Some standing around drinking beer, shooting the breeze, and barbequing. Some throwing a football. Some shooting hoops. Some playing croquet. When Warrick parked the Lexus, a lanky teenager waiting to catch a football suddenly spied them and pointed.  

"They're here!" Gris read the teenager's lips. 

And all hell broke loose. All thirty Stokeses charged for the Lexus. Gris was afraid for Nick, but the young man jumped out and waded into his family. Warrick wasn't far behind. Grissom remained safely in the back seat with Hank.  

Gris watched Nick and Warrick hug or hand shake every single Stokes. Grissom knew the names, marital status, and occupations of Nick's brothers and sisters, but Gris had never had the opportunity to put names with faces. The oldest brother was Sam, married, attorney and sometime state representative. Then Travis, recently divorced, a district attorney. Lisa was next, married, assistant state attorney general and the general in charge of the anniversary party tomorrow. Then Missy, twice divorced, CFO of Western Oil Exploration. Nick fell in the birth order after Missy. The baby of the family was Becky Lynn, or Peanut as she was known, married and a real estate agent. As Gris watched the melee outside, he couldn't begin to tie names to faces. They looked so much alike, all with dark hair and dark eyes and tanned faces and easy Texas grins. As to the rest of the legion of Stokeses, he hadn't a clue. 

A nervous whine from Hank broke into Grissom's study. The dog had pushed to his feet when the car engine had stopped, and, like his human companion, he'd stared out the window at the swarm of Stokes, too. Now he wanted to join the pack. After a quick pee, of course. 

"Sure thing, buddy," Gris said, scrounging the leash off the floor board and attaching it to Hank's harness. Long tail thumping every surface within reach, the dog lapped a broad, wet thank you up Grissom's arm. 

Ignoring the sloppy kiss, Gris said, "Hank, sit." The dog protested but sat. Slowly opening the door, Grissom waited to make sure the dog obeyed. Trembling with anticipation, Hank stared out the door and sniffed the air greedily. 

"Stay," Gris warned and slowly slid out the back seat. Hank stayed. But he barely contained himself. 

A soft, proud smile. "Good dog." Gris took a step away then said, "Hank, come." The dog scampered out of the Lexus and then suddenly stopped dead and stared at something behind Grissom. Gris whirled around.  
 

His mind flashed to a scene from the classic horror movie The Village of the Damned. That's because a dozen children had quietly surrounded him and the dog, nearly pinning them against the Lexus. The children stared unblinking. If their eyes started glowing, he was going to grab the spare key from under the hood of the Lexus and get the hell out of there. Warrick and Nick could fend for themselves. 

Hank growled softly and stood rigid. No wonder. The last time he'd seen humans this small they'd been throwing rocks at him. 

Gris tried to recover from his shock and reassure Hank. "Easy, boy. Sit." The dog glanced up with an are-you-out-of-your-mind look on his face. Grissom repeated, "Sit." Reluctantly and with a woof of protest, Hank did just that.  

"Is that your dog?" asked one of the smaller girls. She was dressed in a bright yellow sun dress. 

"No." 

"What's his name?" a boy with a crewcut and freckles asked. 

"Hank." 

"Can I pet Hank?" a taller girl with a brunette ponytail asked. 

"Maybe later." 

"Does Hank bite?" the girl with the brunette ponytail issued a follow up question. 

Gris closed his eyes. Damn. Usually his curt answers drove people away. Maybe children were different. He took a deep breath and willed himself to stay calm. He opened his eyes and said, "He could. Bite, that is." 

"Why do you have bandages on your elbows?" This from the smaller girl in the sun dress.

"Look, I really need to take Hank for a walk." He tried to ease past, thinking they'd get out of his way, but they stood planted. Like little concrete pillars. 

"I hurt my knees once and got bandages like that," a wiry boy in a tank top and cutoffs announced. And then the questions fell like rain. 

"Did you hurt yourself, mister?" 

"Did you fall down?" 

"What happened?" 

He held up his hand for silence. When he finally got it, he admitted, "Hank went one way, and I went another." 
 

Confusion on their faces. And that was usually the cue that he could safely escape. But not this time. They crowded in closer. 

"What does that mean?" 

"That doesn't make any sense." 

"What happened?" 

Desperate, Grissom scanned the grownups for rescue, but Nick and Warrick were completely engulfed by the adults in Nick's family. Shit. And now Hank was picking up on his human's anxiety. The dog was growling out a warning and starting to get up. Grissom straightened his shoulders. Okay. No more evasive answers. 

"Hank. Sit," he commanded. The dog sat. The kids stopped chattering, dark eyes round and staring.  

Ah. Maybe he should have spoken a little more softly.  

He took a deep, calming breath and explained, "It was an accident. Hank, uh, Hank pulled me down onto the sidewalk. And then he wouldn't stop pulling. That scraped the skin off my elbows. Your Uncle Nick patched me up." Of course, Grissom left out the bit about Uncle Nick patching Gris up to the accompaniment of much guffawing and teasing and head shaking from Uncle Nick and Uncle Nick's best friend Warrick. 

"Owwww," the kids cringed together. The renowned Stokes empathy on display. 

"Mason was on his bike and I was on my skates and he was pulling me with a rope and I fell on the sidewalk and he wouldn't stop pulling me," said Little Miss Sun Dress. 

The boy in the tank top and cutoffs rolled his eyes. "Geez, Ginny!" 

"Emma pushed me down on the sidewalk," another boy said. 

"Did not!" presumably Emma in her defense. 

"Did too!" 

"Did not, liar!" 

"You're the liar!" 
 

Oh, god. Grissom scouted frantically for help but Nick was still being hugged by two women who looked like younger versions of his mother. Warrick was laughing and shaking hands with Nick's father. And then Gris spied a man and a woman standing apart from the crush of Stokes. They appeared to be staring at Warrick. The man rocked, hands in pockets, a confused, disbelieving look on his face. The woman nervously wrung her hands. What had happened? 

"All right, grandchildren. That's enough." Grissom's attention snapped back to the sight of Mrs. Jillian Stokes striding his way, clapping her hands for attention. Oh, hallelujah! A bonafide cowgirl to the rescue! "Y'all get on back to your croquet, and give Mr. Grissom some breathing room." 

The children moaned but moved out, breaking into skips and shouts and laughter. With the exception of Little Miss Sun Dress. The girl said solemnly, "But, Grandmother, I wasn't playing croquet." 

The patented Nick Stokes grin broke out on Jillian's face. Then she tickled her granddaughter in the direction of the lawn. "Virginia, dear, scat!" 

"I'm going! I'm going! I'm going!" Virginia squealed. And while Virginia squealed, Hank howled and strained at the leash. 

Wincing, Gris shut his eyes, hung on to Hank, and hoped his surgically repaired hearing could withstand the weekend. 

"You okay in there, Gil?" 

Blue eyes sprang open to see Jillian's amused dark eyes looking back. "Ah. Yes." 

"Good." Completely ignoring his startled, hug-block body language, she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed.  

"Whuh," Gris wheezed, struggling to maintain his balance while Jillian hugged and Hank tugged. 

"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you," her voice wavered but not her grip. 

Gris swallowed, feeling her emotions wash over him. Gratitude, sadness, hope, fear, joy. He stood frozen for a moment, feeling embarrassed and helpless. Then he looked over to his boyfriend, relaxed and smiling, hugging one of Nick's brothers while a trio of teenaged girls gazed adoringly. Warrick being a friend. Yes. Although Gris didn't exactly return the hug, he at least gently patted Jillian on her back. 

At last she pulled away and let Gris gulp in deep breaths. "Thank you. Thank you and Warrick for bringing my son home." 
 

Grissom swallowed. And suddenly realized a truth. A truth about friendship. "He would've done the same for me." 

Her dark eyes flashed with humor. And pride in her son. "From anybody else that would sound like a cliche. But I think you mean what you say." 

"I always mean what I say."  

Jillian Stokes nodded. "Then we'll get along just fine." She looked down at a nervous and panting Hank. "And speakin' of gettin' along, I'm guessing this little doggie experienced some rescuing, himself." 

"Yes."  

Jillian looked at Grissom expectantly. Gris wasn't sure what she wanted so he kept silent. A wry smile touched her lips. "Well, I reckon I'll get the whole story from my boy. You mind introducing us, though?" 

"Oh," Gris blinked. "Uh, okay, Jillian, this is Hank. Hank, this is Jillian. Nick's mother." 

At the sound of "Nick," Hank's ears perked up, but he still panted and paced. 

Jillian stooped down and scratched Hank behind the ears. "Howdy, Hank. You're a fine specimen of a boxer, but you seem a mite anxious. Not surprising with all these hellions around here. Tell you what. Let's get you settled in with Old Dan." 

She rose quickly and set off down a path opposite to the gathered Stokeses on the lawn. "Y'all coming?" 

Grissom and Hank had to hurry to keep up. "Old Dan?" 

"Our animal welcome wagon," she called over her shoulder as she headed in the direction of an oversized equipment shed. "Blue heeler. Well, more gray than blue these days. And a little too arthritic to heel anything. But he's still the dog pack leader. Hate to say it, but he's smarter than most of my grandkids. I can put any critter in the pen with Dan, and he'll settle them right down." 

Not knowing how Hank would react to Old Dan, Gris tightened his hold on the leash and prepared himself for a violent reaction. Hopefully the boxer would be on his best behavior, but Gris wasn't counting on it. 
 

They rounded the shed, and through the chain link fence separating the back yard from the rest of the ranch, Grissom caught his first glimpse of Old Dan the blue heeler. A breed more widely  known as the Australian Cattle Dog. He was resting in his dog house, head on front paws, calmly watching Jillian and company approach the gate in the fence. Unfortunately, but as expected, once Hank caught whiff of the other dog, he tried to lunge forward, barking and jumping. Grissom was ready, though. He grabbed Hank's harness and pulled the powerful dog back. 

"Hank. Sit." He repeated himself three times before resorting to shoving the boxer's ass to the ground. The dog wouldn't stop growling. Damn. Ever since Gris had lost his composure with the children, he'd lost control over the dog. But Jillian and Old Dan seemed unfazed by Hank's outburst. Good thing neither Warrick nor Nick were here to witness Grissom's complete humiliation as the so-called alpha dog. 

"Hey, Dan, I need you to get this young fella acclimated to the ranch," Jillian unlatched the gate as Old Dan stretched and slowly creaked to his feet. That set off another round of barking from Hank. 

"C'mon inside," Jillian grinned, motioning Gris and Hank through the gate. On one end of the leash, Hank frothed, ecstatic to be moving toward this interloper. On the other, Grissom pulled like a teamster to move the boxer away from the blue heeler. By the time he finally wrestled Hank over to the pen, Gris was panting as much as his dog, not to mention sweating like an overheated horse. 

Jillian stood by the already open door to the pen and waited for Old Dan to limp over. The ancient dog's muzzle had gone completely white, but his eyes were still clear and cunning. He accepted a few scratches from Jillian, completely ignored curious Gris and the ballistic boxer, then ambled inside the pen. He sat down slowly and carefully. And waited.  

Hank meanwhile barked and panted and stamped and strained and stared. 

"Well," Jillian grinned. "Let's introduce Hank to the pack leader." She held her hand out for the leash.  

Using all his strength to keep the dog in check, Grissom cautioned, "Ah, don't you think maybe I--" 

"Dr. Grissom, I know that you're an expert when it comes to bugs. But when it comes to four footed animals, I think I know what I'm doing." 

Oh. Okay. A mental shrug, and Grissom carefully handed over the leash. Sensing the change in drivers, Hank made to lunge for Old Dan. Jillian stopped the boxer cold. She reached down and  nipped him hard on the neck with her fingers. Nipped him hard on the neck like an adult dog would. Like an assistant pack leader would. Hank stood wide-eyed, frozen, unsure. Jillian took one step forward, reining Hank in close to her side. Again he tried to lunge. Again she calmly stopped him then nipped him. Whining, Hank looked back at Grissom.  
 

"Sorry, pal, you're on your own." 

Step by step, nip by nip, Jillian led Hank to within a couple of feet of Old Dan. The blue heeler finally made steely eyed contact with the boxer. No sound. No movement. But all of a sudden Hank dropped and rolled over onto his back submissively showing off his white tummy.  

"Good boy, Hank," Jillian praised while Dan creaked to his feet, took a long sniff of the newcomer, then licked the boxer's face. Gris was as relieved as Hank. 

Gris watched Jillian unhook the boxer's leash and stride out of the pen and into the equipment shed. As she hauled out an oversized dog bed, Gris stepped forward to help. 

"I've got this, hon," she smiled, slinging the padded bed onto the concrete floor of the pen. The bed slid neatly into a shaded corner. "Some dog food, water, and a pair of rawhide bones, and these boys will be set." 

Gris agreed. The pen was a good size for two dogs. Chain link fencing made up the sides and covered the top. Opaque webbing woven into the chain link provided shade. 

When Jillian at last closed the door to the pen, a big bowl filled with dog food, an even bigger one filled with water, and two new rawhide bones lay ready on the clean concrete. But an exhausted Hank was already snuggled up to Old Dan. The young boxer had ignored the bowls of fresh food and water for the warmth and security of the pack leader. Grissom felt envious. 

"Well, Gil, now that we've got Hank settled, how about I introduce you to rest of the herd?"   Jillian said, wiping her dusty hands on her jeans. The famous Stokes grin on her face. Then she let slip a sly wink. "Unless you'd like to spend a little calming time with Old Dan, yourself?" 

Blue eyes narrowed at the teasing, but then he quirked his head. Well. She was right. He would rather crawl in with Hank and Old Dan than face the onslaught of Stokeses. Glancing at the peaceful pen, Gris sighed, "Could I have my own bowl?" 

****** 

Damn. You'd think Warrick had found a cure for old age judging by the way the Stokes clan gripped his hand, clung to his neck, kissed his face, and squealed and cried and generally carried on. All he'd done was give a friend a lift home, and you'd think it was the Second Coming. The adulation could've gone straight to a guy's head, but Warrick was far too grounded for that. Besides, he was too busy keeping an eye on Nicky to get a swelled head. 
 

Through every hug, pat, handshake, grab, and kiss, Warrick watched for any sign of distress. One twitch, one frown, one shudder, and Warrick was hauling his best friend out of the mosh pit. But Nicky seemed completely recovered. The Nick of old. Warrick hoped he wouldn't find Nick later, hunkered over the nearest toilet, puking his guts out. 

With one last clap on the back, Warrick managed to free himself from the suffocating hug of Sam Stokes, Nick's oldest brother.  

"Y'all have a good trip?" Sam grinned. Lord, if not for the slick gray hair over this man's ears and the few extra wrinkles at the corners of his mouth and eyes, Warrick would've sworn Sam was Nick's twin, not a brother who was fourteen years older. 

"Yeah. Even hit the links in Albuquerque." 

"Paa-Ko Ridge?" 

"You know it. Thanks for the tip."  

With a conspiratorial wink, Sam grabbed Warrick's shoulder and leaned in close. "Warrick, two things a Dallas lawyer always knows: the best place to get a drink and the best place to golf. Sometimes it's the same place." 

Warrick grinned. "Shouldn't a Dallas lawyer also always know the law?" 

"Hell, son, that's what paralegals and clerks are for," Sam joked and clapped Warrick on the shoulder. "Hey, Amber, sweetheart," Sam called to his oldest daughter. "Make yourself useful and bring Mr. Brown a beer." 

Amber was one of the trio of tan, slender young ladies who'd been huddled together off to the side, giggling, and checking out Warrick. Oh, lord, he was glad he'd insisted Gris make the trip. Gris. Got to think of Gris. The vibes these girls were broadcasting meant nothing but trouble. 

"But Daddy," Amber batted long, dark lashes at her father and smiled coyly at Warrick. "I'm not twenty-one, yet." 

"Baby girl, I asked you to bring it not drink it."  

She rolled her eyes and turned her charm full on the visitor. Damn. Trouble with a capital T. "Mr. Brown, we've got Shiner Bock and Shiner Blond, Stampede Light, Stella Artois, Bud Light, and Michelob. Oh, and we've got Lone Star for anyone who's had their taste buds shot off, like my Uncle Travis." 

Yeah, Travis. Another Stokes brother. A little heavier, a little grayer, but no mistaking the grin. Travis broke away from hugging Nick to round on his niece. 

"Whoa, now, you little half-pint yuppie snob," Travis grinned. 
 

"'Yuppie' is soooo 80s, Uncle Travis," Amber teased, hands on sleek hips. 

"Well then you were born in the right decade, weren't ya, girl?" 

"Save it for the Germans," Sam joked. "We got us a thirsty visitor, here." 

"Made your decision, Mr. Brown?" she asked, turning her sweet grin back on Warrick. 

Ho, boy. He had forgotten the original question. "Uh . . ." 

"Beer?" 

"Uh, yeah, Stella Artois." 

"Really?" she said surprised.  

"Really," Warrick grinned, curious why she was surprised but happy she was the one off balance for a change. 

"Oh, uh, wow," she stammered, tanned face beginning to flush. "I thought you'd  . . . oh, boy, I'll go get that beer, now." She quick stepped toward one of the giant coolers sweating in the shade of the house, her two cousins trailing and giggling after. Warrick shook his head not understanding what had caused her embarrassment. 

"Hello, uh, Warrick?" 

He pivoted toward the voice with a smile. "You must be Becky Lynn."  

Nick's little sister. She had the Stokes nose, eyebrows, and coloring, but her grin was more nervous than welcoming. She was known throughout the family by her childhood nickname Peanut, but Warrick never felt comfortable calling her that.  

Now, on the other hand, her husband Robert . . . Big and beige, he hulked to the side, hands sunk deep in the pockets of his chinos, feet rocking back and forth in his loafers. He was an assistant manager at the First Convenience Bank of Midlothian. Without much affection, Nick referred to his brother-in-law as Banker Bob. After just one excruciating phone conversation with him, Warrick had no problem with that nickname. 

"Thank you for bringing Nick home." Becky Lynn offered a handshake rather than a hug. Warrick took her hand, felt a slight tremble. 

Puzzled, Warrick somehow managed, "Least I could do." 
 

Brittle smile frozen on her face, she timidly withdrew her hand. "Well, it's, uh, it's great to put a voice to a face. You know, when we called these past few months, we never knew who was going to answer the phone. You or Nick." 

"Yeah," Banker Bob shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, we started to wonder if Nichols had gone queer on us." 

Warrick's eyebrows shot for his hairline. Nichols? Queer? What? 

Becky Lynn laughed nervously. "Oh, now, Bob, you know Nicky would never, ever do that." 

"Yeah, I guess, so," Banker Bob refused to look at Warrick.  

And Warrick stood stunned. Were Becky Lynn and Banker Bob bugging because they knew Warrick was involved with a man? But how was that possible? He knew without a doubt Nick would never reveal Warrick's relationship with Gris to the family. Nick had a cousin who was openly gay. The cousin had never been welcome at any family reunions much less at the Stokes ranch. Had Mr. and Mrs. Stokes guessed? But if they had, would the Stokeses have welcomed Warrick like a conquering hero? 

"And neither would Warrick," Becky Lynn chirped uncertainly. "Would you?" 

Oh fuck. Warrick felt his surprise start to give way to anger. Deep breath, Brown. Keep it cool. Keep it cool, man. But before he could answer, a large hand clapped him on the back. 

"Good gracious, Robert! And, Peanut, you know better," Sam chastised. "Will you two stop thinking every unmarried male over thirty is a fairy. Does this man look like he has a limp wrist?" 

"Yeah. You can just tell he's all man," Travis added, though with an edge of disappointment. Whether for his little sister and brother-in-law or for his older brother or for all three Warrick couldn't tell. 

"Oh, y'all!" Becky Lynn whined. 

"Well?" Sam's prosecutor eyes bored into his sister. Travis simply looked embarrassed. Banker Bob looked like he was missing a home foreclosure somewhere. 

"Of course not," she snapped. "It's just . . . well I  read about . . . oh . . . that writer." Becky Lynn turned to Warrick, "One of your people." 

"Oh, Peanut," Sam sighed, shrugging an apology at Warrick while Travis threw up his hands and steamed off. 
 

"One of my people?" Warrick asked softly, knowing the answer to the question but hoping she would go against the odds and give a different one. But Becky Lynn stayed true to expectations. 

"Yes. Oh, what's her name? Help me, Warrick. The Stella Got Her . . . oh, you know . . ."  

Warrick did know, but he wasn't gonna help Becky Lynn. 

"The Stella Got Her . . . the Stella Got Her . . ." Ah! She had it! " The Stella Got Her Glove Back lady!"  

Warrick covered his laugh with a polite cough, while Becky Lynn chattered on. "It turned out her husband was cheating on her with," she lowered her voice, "another man. Well . . . you just never know." 

Then Banker Bob put in his two percent interest. "And that black fella on Oprah. The one that said black faggot husbands were killing their wives with AIDS." 

"Yes! All those men on the . . . down low!" she said, proud to remember an ethnic phrase. "Isn't that right, Warrick?" 

"I don't watch Oprah." 

That seemed to shock Becky Lynn more than the thought of Nick gone queer. "But, she's . . ." 

"A woman?" Warrick helped without helping. 

"Well, yes . . . but . . . well, I thought you'd naturally want to support . . .  well, uh," she looked around hopefully at her husband. But Banker Bob had wandered off in search of a beer. Or a predatory lenders conference. She glanced pleadingly at Sam, but he wasn't going to help her out. Her hands twisted nervously as she tried to think what to say. It was obviously a chore she wasn't used to. 

"Look, Becky Lynn," Warrick took a chance, betting that Nick's sister was simply clueless and not hateful. "I can give you only one man's opinion, not a whole race's. Okay?" 

Grateful, she bobbled her head like a roulette ball tumbling off its wheel. 

Warrick almost smiled but what he had to say was too serious. "Two consenting adults should be free to love one another, no matter the gender." 

Shit. Warrick was gonna stop placing bets outside LVPD poker night. Becky Lynn's hands flew horrified to her face. Even Sam tightened his lips. Not a PFLAG household. 
 

"But, but," Becky Lynn stuttered. "But that's wrong! It says so in the Bible!" 

"You know, I get nervous when some folks start waving the Bible around. The curse of Ham verses in Genesis?  Not favorites among 'my people.'"  

Becky Lynn blinked, confused. Uh huh. Warrick didn't know why he could still be surprised. So many times the first one to wave the Bible was the last one to read it.  

"Here's your beer," Amber interrupted brightly, unaware of the drama around her, shoving the cold bottle into Warrick's large hand. 

"What? You go all the way to Belgium for it?" Sam barked. 

Amber flushed, dark eyes filled with tears. "Sorry, Daddy." 

Warrick soothed, "Thank you, Amber. You and the cavalry arrived just in time." He smiled, saluted her with the Stella Artois, and took a long, satisfying drink. 

Amber, of course, grinned back with thanks. And somehow Warrick's gentleness, his kindness to Amber shamed her father and aunt. Sam and Becky Lynn glanced at each other then at the ground. They all knew battle lines had been drawn, but they'd silently agreed on a truce.  

"Well, uh, Warrick," Sam cleared his throat then plunged into a new, safer subject. "You got any picks for me this football season?" 

"College or Pro?" 

"College. With Bill Parcells coaching the Cowboys, I got no doubts who's gonna be in the Super Bowl come January."  

"Yes!" Becky Lynn jumped on the let's-change-the-subject express. "That Drew Bledsoe is a great quarterback." 

"Huh. Cowboys." But Warrick was smart enough--and kind enough--not to shame two Stokes twice in one day. 

****** 

Three o'clock in the morning, and Warrick had won all the cash he could safely win without stirring up major resentment. Nick had warned his siblings: play poker, not blackjack. But nobody listened. So here was Warrick in the Stokes family kitchen, stuffing an extra $385 into his straining wallet and trying his best not to look smug. 
 

"You can't seriously pack it in, now," Missy Stokes moaned. A successful woman in a man's world, Missy was taking her losses the hardest. "Give us a chance!" 

"Hey, sis," Sam stood up from the round, heavy oak kitchen table and stretched. "The man's been on the road all day. Even card sharks need shuteye. But, tell you what. I'll give you a chance to lose more money to me." 

"Ha! All hat and no cattle, Sam Houston Stokes!" Missy shuffled the cards like a pro. She turned to Sam's wife Paula. "Honey, I hope that Lexus is in your name only 'cause I'm fixin' to drive this husband of yours to the poor house." 

Yeah. One thing Warrick had discovered this weekend: Nicky came by his cowboy patter honestly. 

"Well," Warrick patted his front pocket. "Thanks for showing me that Southern Hospitality I've heard so much about."  

"Tomorrow night we might not be so hospitable," Missy scowled. 

Travis muttered, "If Peanut and Banker Bob hang around, there won't be any hospitality for anybody."  

Missy shot him a look that said we don't talk bad about family members in front of outsiders even if those family members are pig-headed killjoys. Earlier that evening, Becky Lynn and Banker Bob had disapprovingly sniffed their way out of the kitchen, horrified that gambling was going on in the house. The remaining Stokeses had immediately relaxed. 

"Don't know if I can play tomorrow night," Warrick soothed into the silence. Then his wicked sense of humor took over. "My wallet can't get any fatter without exploding." 

"Maybe you should buy another one," Missy retorted, though not unkindly. 

Warrick laughed. "I might just do that." 

"Well, pardner," Nick slow grinned and scooted his chair back from the table. "Since I'm the one who introduced you to easy pickings, I'll be by for my cut tomorrow morning." 

"Is that right?"  

"Oh, yeah." 

"Grams always said, 'Mo' money, mo' problems,'" Warrick shook his head. "Didn't know she was warning me about you." 
 

"Aw, Rick, now you know Grams loved me best," Nick grinned at his siblings grouped around the kitchen table. He didn't notice that everybody but Travis had gone frosty quiet during his banter with his best friend. What was up with that? And then Nick continued, "But that's only because Grams loved everybody best. She was the finest Christian lady I ever met." 

Uh oh. Warrick knew that once somebody pulled out the religion card at a family reunion, it was time for a visitor to make himself scarce. 

"Well, 'night, everybody." 

"Hey, Rick?" Nick stood up, rounded the table, and wrapped Warrick in a tight hug. "Thanks, man, for bringing me home." 

Well, if the atmosphere had been frosty before, it plummeted to near-arctic. But, fuck that. Warrick didn't give a damn how cold things got or why. His best friend was what mattered. Warrick returned the hug then realized his guyhood skated dangerously close to sentiment land.  

He pulled back and said, "Hey, man, better start winning some gas money or you'll be walking back to Vegas." 

"With you out of the game, bro? Hell, I can afford to get us all the way down to Tierra del Fuego." 

Oh, now that got the competitive Stokes juices going. "You are going down, Forrest Nichols Stokes!" Missy shuffled the cards with such force, Warrick thought they might break in half. And then he realized he'd just learned Nick's full name. 

Warrick grinned, "Forrest Nichols?" 

Nick glared at his sister. "My name's the result of a political compromise." 

"You're joking." 

"Son, we take politics seriously in this house," Sam said. 

"Too seriously," Travis countered, not backing down from his older brother's stare. 

Nick scratched the back of his neck. "Uh, yeah, uh, Dad . . . Dad was a State Rep. in the legislature back in 1971. He needed support for more money for UT Dallas. So he cut a deal with R. C. Nichols from Houston and Forrest Harding from San Angelo." 

"The deal's legendary in these parts!" Missy confided, happy she'd scored a point off her little brother. 

From religion to politics. Damn. Warrick decided it was definitely time to make himself scarce. 

"See ya in the morning, bro," Warrick said to Nick.  

A sympathetic look flashed between two men with two large, close-knit families, and Warrick sauntered out of the kitchen, across the giant living room in the direction of the stairs. In the direction of a cozy bedroom and a warm boyfriend. But maybe the bedroom and the boyfriend could wait a little longer. Warrick couldn't pass up a chance to take in the family home of his best friend.  

The living room lived up to its name: warm wood floors with thick wool rugs; plump leather couches, armchairs, and ottomans; wooden rockers and rocking horses. Pillows and toys and half-played games scattered everywhere. On the walls hung family group shots and baby pictures. There were photos of Mrs. Stokes in cowgirl regalia, Judge Stokes in golf clothes, the boys in football and baseball uniforms, the girls in tennis and soccer outfits. High school and college graduation photos. Wedding photos. And then the cycle started over again with the grandkids. Huh. If you weren't married with children, your photographic life pretty much came to an end at college graduation in the Stokes house. 

A shake of his head, and Warrick suddenly felt the urgency to rejoin his lover, his chosen family. Even if Gris was sound asleep, Warrick needed to wrap himself around his baby. But as he reached the first step of the stairway, a soft voice spoke behind him. 

"Uh, Warrick?" 

Ho, boy. It was Travis, probably looking to switch rooms again. Before she'd retired for the evening, Mrs. Stokes had decreed the sleeping arrangements. Travis, recently divorced, and Nick would be sharing a room. And, with many apologies for the inconvenience, Mr. Brown and Dr. Grissom would be sharing a room--a room Warrick was surprised to see contained a single queen-size bed. Man, was the Stokes family giving off mixed messages or what? At any rate, only Travis seemed to be having trouble with the arrangements. 

Mustering a friendly expression, Warrick faced Nick's older brother. "Man, you can't leave the table, yet. Your Twenty-One game is tight. Here's your chance to clean up the rest of the cash. Maybe even pick up Paula's Lexus. Make Nicky walk back to Vegas."  

The Stokes grin broke through. "Nah. Anything I win from family stays with family." 

"Huh. So the money pot only grows bigger when the suckers visit." 

"Pretty much," Travis shrugged then rubbed the back of his neck. "Say, uh, you sure you don't want to bunk with Nick tonight?" 
 

Warrick bit down on a sigh. "I'm good. I've roomed with Grissom before, no problems. Nick needs time with family." 

"Yeah, but . . ." Travis glanced behind him. No way the family was in earshot, but he still lowered his voice. "Nick's not rooming with me so he can get more time with family. He's rooming with me because . . . because of the family. Mom and Dad, Sam, Missy, and Peanut. Even Lisa. They think you and Nick are too close." 

"Too close?" Warrick knew the answer, but he needed to hear it. Better that all the cards are on the table when it comes to friends and family. 

Travis blushed. "Physically." 

Cool poker face on tight, Warrick said, "Well, I couldn't choose anyone better. Nick is my best friend. But he's only a friend." 

"Oh."  

Interesting. Travis looked disappointed. Travis also looked like he desperately wanted to say something else. Subtle tics of the face and hands. Body language that a trained investigator easily recognized. So Warrick waited. Waited with the patience of a trained investigator. And as he waited, he reflected on the beauty of irony. What could be better? Fearing that Warrick and Nick might be sleeping together, Nick's family put Warrick in with Gris. Yeah.  Nullify the perceived "threat" and enable the real one. Ho, man, his baby was gonna love this. Too fucking rich. 

"Peanut told us what you said," Travis at last managed. "About a man being free to marry . . . another man." 

Well, it wasn't exactly what he'd said, but Warrick nodded hoping Travis would get to the point. 

"Does Nick think that, too?" 

Huh. "Well, Nick's never said one way or the other. But he's cool with friends, you know. Close friends. They love each other. They just happen to be men."  

"These are close friends of Nick's?" 

"Yeah." 

"And he doesn't act . . . uncomfortable around them?" 

"Nope." 
 

Travis took a deep breath, but his voice still shook. "Thank god. I was hoping I could tell . . . I could tell somebody. I . . . uh, thanks. Thanks a million. I'll, uh, see you tomorrow." 

"Sure. And good luck." 

A genuine, relieved smile, and Travis headed back to the family blackjack tournament. Warrick grinned. Oh, yeah. If what he suspected was true, the Stokes family was in for one hell of a surprise. 

Shaking the tension of family politics from his shoulders, Warrick took the stairs two at a time then flowed down the second floor hall for the guest bedroom at the back. The bedroom was probably the most private in the house, but the door was closed. To be honest, Warrick would be lucky if Gris had left it unlocked. Considering the events earlier in the evening.  

Around 8:00, when the parents of all the little Stokes had grown weary of tom-toms and supersoakers and were eager to settle down for some serious card playing in the kitchen, Party General Lisa Stokes had given Nick direct orders: find something quiet for the kids to do or else. No way was Nick missing the blackjack tournament, but what could he do?  

That's when Warrick had slyly pointed out his boyfriend, sitting by himself reading a book in a corner of the living room. Behaving like a ghost, blending into the furniture. Now, Warrick knew it had been a wicked thing to do. Gris tended to view kids as if they were dangerous scientific experiments that produced highly unpredictable results. Warrick suspected that the last time his boyfriend had spent so much time in the company of so many kids was over forty years ago. When he'd attended grade school.  

But Warrick also knew that his boyfriend could be good with kids if there was some focused activity where he could be in charge. And there was no focused activity quite like showing off with basic chemistry. Gleefully, Warrick had shared that suggestion with Nick. 

What Warrick hadn't shared was that Gris still owed Nicky for ragging on him during the trip. But Nick figured that out for himself. Oh, yeah, revenge is sweet! So sweet!  

With a high-watt grin, Nick had swaggered to the center of the living room. "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls," he'd loudly announced. "Direct to you from Las Vegas, Nevada, may I introduce to you the Lord of the Ring Stand, the Prince of the Pipettes, the Wizard of the Burettes, Dr. Gil Grissom!" 

Startled, Grissom's wide blue eyes looked up from his book to see thirty odd faces staring back at him.  

And that's when Nick added, "Hey, kids, Dr. Grissom can do magic!"   
 

The look on his boyfriend's face as a dozen kids promptly cornered him sent Warrick and Nick into the kitchen pantry--where they could safely laugh their asses off.  

For the next hour and a half,  while Warrick cleaned up cash in the kitchen, Gris and the kids worked magic in the basement. They'd created clouds in jars, built little lava lamps, mixed up glow-in-the-dark slime, and, for the grand finale, conjured a thermite reaction from rust, aluminum, and a sparkler left over from July 4th. Unfortunately, Gris had overdone the rust and aluminum.  

Loud pops like fire crackers rattled out of the basement and shocked all the adult Stokes into silence. Then they heard squealing children, and all the over-protective adults swarmed downstairs, leaving Warrick and Nick still sitting at the kitchen table.  

A heart beat later, the Lord of the Ring Stand, without one word, sped through the kitchen, shot across the living room, and scampered up the stairs. Best friends looked at each other then burst into evil laughter. Yeah, the kids were fine, the parents were fine, the basement was fine. Just a lot of sound and fury that scared the shit out of everybody except Warrick and Nick. And maybe Gris. 

So it was understandable that Warrick half expected the guestroom door to be locked. How else was Gris going to keep out curious children, freaked out parents, and evil boyfriends? Holding his breath, Warrick gingerly twisted the door knob. He was relieved when it gave way. Heh. Maybe there was still a chance that the Lord of the Ring Stand was open to making a little more magic this evening. 

Warrick slowly pushed the door open, and, damn, wouldn't you know it. Gris was sound asleep. Propped up in bed, glasses half-way down his nose, chin tucked into his shoulder, open book on his lap, bedside lamp still on, Gris looked like he'd dropped off mid-paragraph. Warrick stood still and breathed in deep. He soaked up the peace, the relaxation, the joy he always found when he was reunited with his boyfriend. Warrick realized how free he felt just stepping inside this room. Free of anyone's preconceptions or expectations or, to be honest, prejudices. Yeah. Free even to set aside his own self image, if he was brave enough. Because if there was anyone who'd scale down the defenses, who'd bring out the cuddle side of Warrick, it was his baby in bed, in his blue t shirt and plaid sleep pants, graying hair rumpled, pink lips parted. No worries, no cares, no thoughts. Just soul-restoring sleep. 

One more deep breath, one full body stretch, and Warrick snagged his sleep pants and eased into the ensuite bathroom. He undressed and showered, brushed his teeth and fluffed his hair. With one last check in the mirror, Warrick padded out of the bathroom. 
 

Gris must be down deep because he had not stirred. Smile on his face, Warrick crossed over to the door and locked it. The two men might not do anything amorous, but there was no sense in running a risk. Then he walked over to Gris to kiss him on the top of his head and stroke his hair and beard. 

Blue eyes fluttered open. "Mmmph?" 

"Hey, baby. Wake up so you can go back to sleep." 

"Funny," Gris murmured, burrowing his bearded cheek into Warrick's large hand. 

"C'mon, baby, let's get your glasses and your book and turn out the light." 

A soft sigh. "Need a kiss first." 

Warrick chuckled. This was a side of Gris hidden to everyone else: relaxed, unguarded, needy. Tenderly, Warrick kissed his boyfriend. Warrick had intended a brief kiss, but a large hand settled on the back of his neck, pulling him in deeper. Five heartbeats. Ten. Finally the kiss ended. The men moaned quietly when it ended. 

"We good, now?" Warrick whispered. 

"Hmm. Good. So good," Gris purred, blue eyes slowly blinking closed.  

Amused, Warrick slipped off Grissom's glasses and set them on the bedside table. He picked up the book off his boyfriend's lap and glanced at the cover. Huh. Jack Kerouac's Book of Dreams. 

"Getting your stream of consciousness, beat generation groovitude on, daddio?" he joked, setting the book on the bedside table, too. 

Gris nodded. Warrick waited, sure that Grissom was going to add something, but all was quiet. A few seconds more, a gentle smirk, a quick kiss to the forehead, and Warrick reached for the light. 

"I lost my consciousness after a few pages, though," Gris mumbled. "Kerouac is tough to read when you're tired." 

"Baby, he's tough to read when you're not tired, too." 

He shrugged, whether in agreement or dissent, Warrick couldn't tell. But the last thing he wanted to do was get involved in a literary discussion with his boyfriend.  

"You ready for me to turn out the light?" 
 

"Uh hmm." Eyes still closed, Gris pulled an unneeded pillow out from behind his back and let it plop to the floor. Then he slowly scooted down, winding up flat on his back, head turned slightly toward the side of the bed where Warrick would soon be. Damn. Baby looked down for the count. No more making magic tonight. 

One more long, loving look at his handsome boyfriend, and Warrick flicked off the light. Pale moonlight filtered in through the privacy shades, lighting his way around to his side of the bed. A full body stretch, and Warrick slipped into the bed, cool cotton sheets relaxing him, making him aware that he was more tired than he thought. 

He was drifting, thinking not in words or images but in music. Warm jazz playing in his head. Soft, sensuous jazz to console a man. To make him forget about narrow-minded people and their narrow-minded ways. And then Gris suddenly rolled over, snuggled in close, head on his boyfriend's chest, left arm around his boyfriend's belly. Working his trapped left arm free, Warrick wrapped it around Grissom's broad back.  

"Mmmm," Gris purred onto a bare, muscled chest. 

"Mmmm hmmm," Warrick answered back into soft curly hair, loving the feel of the strong, sturdy body nestled into his side and on his chest.   

They breathed together for a while. Warrick let the warm body in his arms and the warm jazz in his head carry him close to sleep. He was sliding down into that velvet darkness when he felt a warm, wet tongue lap across his nipple. 

Green eyes popped open, but Warrick didn't say anything. Maybe Gris had yawned or-- 

Another wet lick.  

"Hey?" 

The tongue darted across again then soft lips gathered the nipple in for gentle sucking. 

Not that Warrick minded, but he was surprised. He ran his long musician's fingers through soft hair and asked, "What you doing, baby?" 

Gris ignored the question. He kept sucking and even brought his left hand up to coax the other nipple to a standing peak. Damn, it was good. It was great, but, considering the events of the evening, Warrick couldn't help but be a little suspicious. 

"You're not just gonna get me revved up then drop off to sleep are you?" 

He hissed as sharp teeth and hard fingers closed threateningly around his nipples but quickly relented, teasing and caressing rather than causing pain. Warrick shifted, feeling his cock begin to swell, to pulse insistently against his sleep pants. Warrick didn't really want his boyfriend to stop, but curiosity--and suspicion--were powerful masters. 
 

"You know I ain't complaining, but not ten minutes ago I would've sworn you'd gone night-night." 

Looking up slowly, his pale face almost alabaster in the moonlight, Gris smiled and quoted, "'Love hath chased sleep from my enthralled eyes.'" 

"Shakespeare," Warrick nodded. 

"Two Gentlemen of Verona." 

"Huh. One of the comedies, right?" 

"Right." 

"Well, we're two gentlemen of Vegas, baby. We gonna have a happy ending, too?" 

His boyfriend leaned forward, pale face serious rather than playful, low voice erotic yet forceful. "You can count on it, anima mea." 

Warrick shivered at the promise. Then he shivered again as soft lips and skilled fingers caressed his face and throat, stroked his belly and hips. He tried to sit up, tried to capture those lips and fingers, but he was pushed back. Forced back. For a split second he struggled then he recognized that Gris was taking the lead. He was running the show. He'd been doing that a lot lately. And Warrick realized he was okay with that. In fact he was more than okay with that.  

From the beginning of their relationship, Warrick had craved Gris taking the initiative. And now that he was, Warrick craved even more. He wanted . . . he wanted . . . oh, god, he wanted to give himself to Gris. Right now!  

"Please," he whispered as a tongue lapped at this throat, as fingers slipped inside his sleep pants and cradled his balls. "Please." 

"Please what, anima?" Blue eyes gone gray in the moonlight still twinkled. 

"Please," he swallowed. And he almost said it. Almost admitted what he truly wanted. Almost broke free.  

What would it be like to be free? Not to care what others thought. Not to care what he'd always thought. Not to care about how he was supposed to look or who he was supposed to love or what he was supposed to do in bed. To be judged on the merits and not prejudged on the lies? To give up everything and everyone for love. 
 

Deft fingers skated over his forehead, smoothing the wrinkles. Soft lips teased the frown lines cutting into his face. 

"Tell me," Gris whispered. "Tell me what you want." A lingering kiss. "Tell me what you need." 

Warrick could only rasp, "You. Please." 

A lopsided, ghostly smile. "Always, anima." 

The kiss this time wasn't soft or gentle but hard and demanding, as if Gris was swearing an eternal oath. And, oh, sweet Jesus, that kiss blanked Warrick's mind to what he wanted. He simply let his body go on automatic, primed for anything Gris wanted to do. 

Warrick surrendered to the sensation of silky lips and sharp teeth gliding over his skin. Of strong fingers urging his hips up, pulling down his sleep pants, and homing in on his most sensitive spots: just above his right hip, along the edge of his pubic hair, inside his left thigh. And when those lips and teeth encircled the head of his cock, when those strong fingers caressed his balls, he gripped his boyfriend's skull with one hand and covered his own mouth with the other. 

Lips and fingers and tongue and teeth stirred him, molded him, built him. They held him effortlessly suspended, right on the edge of blistering completion but never quite over. He muffled his screams with his arm, bruised his arm with his teeth, but he couldn't still his shaking body. He vibrated like a piano wire, endlessly played, brilliantly played. He lost control. He lost thought. His world telescoped to the searing pleasure radiating from his cock and balls. And then, oh dear lord, and then, a gentle, insistent finger pierced him, curled up, and sought that bundle of nerves, that gateway to Nirvana, and Warrick came. He came shaking and splintering to the finish line. He came hard, upper body jacked up from the bed, mouth screaming silently, fist crammed into his mouth to stop his cries. Unshed tears scorched his eyelids. He didn't dare open his eyes, or weakness would tumble down his cheeks. 

"Warrick? Anima? Are you all right?" Strong hands eased him back, stroked his shoulders and chest. Soft lips wiped the tears away, murmured reassurances. 

"S-s-sorry," Warrick gasped. "D-damn." 

"What happened?" 

Warrick wasn't gonna try to answer that one. Not yet. "Don't know." 

"Are you hurt?" 

Warrick shook his head then caught the expression on his boyfriend's concerned, almost scared face. A nervous laugh, "I'm okay." 
 

"Yes?"  

Warrick swallowed, made sure the walls of his cool, self image were back up and intact. "Yeah, baby. I'm okay. It was just . . . intense." 

An unconvinced eyebrow slowly settled back down. Then a lopsided smile broke out, and comforting arms surrounded him, held him, wordlessly protected him. But they couldn't protect him against himself.  

As he rested his head on a strong shoulder, as he looped his arm around a strong chest, as he listened to the slow, steady breathing of his boyfriend's sleep, the question 'why' echoed endlessly in Warrick's head the rest of the short night. It crowded out sleep, even drowned out his music. Why could he feel so free when he obviously wasn't? Why could he feel so accepted when he couldn't accept himself? Why could Gris not seem weak when he gave himself to Warrick? Why did Warrick think he'd seem weak if he gave himself to Gris? And why, oh why, did it matter so much? 

****** 

"Parking lot's on Olive, Rick. Take a right at the next light. That'll be Ross. Then we'll take another right onto Olive, and we'll be there," Travis Stokes pointed up ahead. 

Warrick nodded. As much as he would've liked to have had his baby in the front seat with him, he was glad to have a downtown local giving directions. Navigating "Deathtrap Interstate 35," as Nick called it, had been headache enough without having to face the crazy maze of one-way streets and road construction downtown. Still Warrick missed sitting beside Gris. Green eyes flicked a glance at the rearview mirror in the direction of his best friend and boyfriend. Nick and Gris looking oh so fine in gray suits, white shirts, and blue striped ties. Warrick also wore a suit--black with a black shirt and silver tie. He knew he looked good. The unshielded delight in his boyfriend's eyes made that clear. Too bad their suits were all gonna be soaked through by the end of the evening. Warrick shook his head. Damn. What we do for family. 

"Y'all are gonna be OD'd on family by the time this shindig is through," Travis sighed. 

"Too late," Grissom grumbled from the back seat. 

Heh. Yeah, Gris had OD'd about 3 o'clock this afternoon. He and Warrick had been traveling all day delivering greetings and goodies to the Texas branch of the Brown clan. Driven close to 70 miles and still had to drive back to the ranch. A greet-the-dawn breakfast with the Browns in Mesquite, a 'burb to the east of Dallas. Mid-morning brunch with more Browns in South Dallas. Afternoon tea with even more Browns to the west in Grand Prairie. Grissom growing more withdrawn and tense with each passing hour.  
 

By the time they'd rolled into Grand Prairie, Warrick was making promises right and left. Yeah, baby, next time in L.A. we'll hit the Museum of Jurassic Technology. For sure we'll go to the Opera. Honey, I'll see to it that you ride every damn roller coaster at Knott's Berry Farm. Sweetheart, you know I love you and, yes--shudder--we will tour the Natural History Museum's insect zoo. But the clincher for getting Gris out of the car for afternoon tea? Complete freedom to wander around the Nasher Sculpture Center tonight. All Grissom had to do was make an appearance at the reception for Roger and Jillian Stokes, drink a glass of champagne with his boyfriend, then Gris was free to cut and run. 

"Parking lot's on the right." 

"Thanks for navigating, man." 

Travis beamed. "Well, you know, being the second son has its advantages." 

At Warrick's quizzical look, Travis added, "You never get to drive, but you sure do learn to read a map." 

Warrick parked the car. It was 6:30, a good 30 minutes before festivities officially began. The Stokes boys had to be early to greet guests. And to do whatever Party General Lisa told them to do. 

The four men got out of the car and started to sweat. Warrick popped the trunk. The only gift remaining for distribution was the beautiful Navajo print table cloth and matching cloth napkins he and Gris had bought in Albuquerque. Warrick lifted the gold and white wrapped package with his finger tips then cradled it in the crook of his arm. It was a little awkward, but it was the only way he could think to minimize sweat on the wrapping paper. With a snap of the wrist, he closed the trunk and followed the others across Olive and around the corner to the entrance to the Nasher.  

"Store fronts," Gris said, stopping on the corner, studying the Center's architecture. Yeah. Boyfriend was right. With its wide gallery windows, the front looked more like upscale shops than a museum. 

Nick elbowed Travis. "Told ya." 

"Told him what?" Warrick asked suspiciously. 

"That Grissom would make the connection. Raymond Nasher earned his dough developing shopping centers." 
 

Gris gave a little shrug. A little smug shrug. A little too smug since Warrick knew Grissom had been studying all about the Nasher Sculpture Center ever since he'd heard where Roger and Jillian would be celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary. But Warrick didn't give his boyfriend away. Gris gifted his boyfriend a sly wink in thanks. 

They found the entrance, opened the heavy glass door, and walked inside to an airy building full of light. Brilliant travertine walls and polished oak floors. And a ceiling that was glass shaded by aluminum sunscreens. Like a museum without a roof. 

"Can I help y'all?" a guard with a clipboard asked. He stood behind an information station which, along with a velvet rope, blocked the way into the Center. The Nasher had closed to the public at 6:00, but you'd think the guard could recognize four men condemned to an anniversary party. 

"Yep," Travis answered. "You got the early arrivals list?" 

The guard nodded, light brown eyes sliding over to Warrick, giving him a long look. Cool green eyes returned the stare. You think I don't belong here, chump? Think again. 

Travis and Nick seemed to miss the interplay. Gris was already studying all the sculptures he could see from behind the velvet rope.  

"I'm Travis Stokes. This here's my little brother Nick. And guests Warrick Brown and Gil Grissom." 

Pale fingers gripped the pen a little tighter as the guard checked off Warrick's name.  

"Reception's downstairs--" 

"Yeah, we know, thanks," Travis dismissed the guard, unhooked the velvet rope, and started across the gallery.  

Motioning Grissom and Warrick forward, Nick said, "Y'all go on ahead." 

Huh. Yeah, Warrick should've known his best friend hadn't missed the unfriendly welcome directed his way. Nicky was pissed, and the way his dark eyes flashed at the guard, somebody was about to get an old fashioned ass chewing. Warrick had a smile on his face as he crossed the gallery and headed for the broad open stairs leading to the basement. 

"Rodin," Gris gasped and tried to veer right, heading for the next gallery and a plaster statue of a young male nude, arms raised, muscles beautifully defined. Warrick grabbed his boyfriend's sleeve. 

"Whoa. Not yet." Pleading blue eyes turned Warrick's way. Damn. Whoever thought Warrick would have to be the responsible adult? "We got chores to do first." 
 

A sigh, a longing look, but Grissom reluctantly accompanied Warrick downstairs. Where even more temptations lurked.  

"Picasso," Gris moaned. "Giacometti. Matisse." 

Warrick shook his head. "Grams always said 'vegetables before dessert.'" 

A growl. "Your grandmother made vegetables that tasted like dessert."  

Damn, but Warrick loved it when his baby pouted. Sucking in his lips, Warrick bit down to keep a laugh from busting loose. He sneaked a large hand to his boyfriend's back, steering him past the artwork and into Nasher Hall. 

Gold and white balloons floated everywhere. A long oak table held a guest registry as well as photo albums of Jillian, Roger, and the whole Stokes clan. A smaller table shoved against the wall already held a mound of gifts. Throughout the hall, a mixture of stand up and sit-down tables gleamed with gold and white table cloths. Caterers from the Mansion on Turtle Creek, one of the finest restaurants in Dallas, scurried to put the finishing touches on tables with fruit, crab cakes, lobster tacos, and upscale nachos topped with smoked chicken and lobster. An exquisite four-tier cake towered over the center of the room. And, oh my lord, not one, not two, but three open bars.  

"Damn," Warrick whispered. "I've been to weddings at the Venetian that didn't look this good. How much you think all this is gonna cost?" 

Gris shrugged in amazement. "At a guess? Half my annual salary." 

Just then Amber and her two cousins Kimber and Meghan caught sight of the two men. "Hey, Mr. Brown," Amber chirped. She was dressed like her cousins in short sleeveless dresses and low pumps. The three girls, uh, young women, looked cute and comfortable. "Did y'all sign the guest book?" 

Ah. The welcome wagon. A slow, easy grin. "Nope, not yet." 

Amber snatched the gift for her grandparents away from Warrick and handed it off to Kimber who added it to the presents pile. Meghan eagerly waved a pen under his nose. Warrick was the first non-Stokes to sign, Gris the second. 

"Visconti Aida Limited Edition, " Grissom said impressed, examining the pen closely. 

"Is that special or something?" Meghan said. 
 

"One of the finest pens made. Celluloid, silver, and gold. It sells for around $500," he handed it back to her. 

"Holy crap!" she said, dark eyes glued to the pen. "No wonder Aunt Lisa  told me to guard it with my life." 

Excited blue eyes turned Warrick's way. "You know, the last time I saw one of these, it was buried half-way into a victim's skull, straight shot through the left eye." 

Warrick and Amber winced. Gris knew better than to talk shop with family. But Meghan looked closer at the pen and crowed, "Cooool!" 

"Uh," Warrick changed the topic. "Anything we can do to help?" 

"Well," Amber flicked a glance at Gris. Dimples that meant mischief slowly deepened. "Josh and Matt are setting up the Activity Room just next door. To keep the kids entertained. They could use some help." 

"I'll be upstairs," Grissom announced, spun on his heel, and almost ran over Nick in haste to exit the Hall. 

"Wow. I guess that's Dr. Grissom's famous disappearing act," she grinned. Man, these Stokes women fought dirty. 

"Yeah. Thanks a lot," Warrick grimaced. "I'll be lucky to get him back down here for the toast." 

"What's up with Gris?" Nick jabbed his thumb in the direction of the departed man. 

"Miss Amber here wanted the Lord of the Ringstand for an encore performance." 

Nick scowled at his niece. "What part of 'be on your best behavior' do you not understand?" 

"Why, Uncle Nick, whatever could you mean?" Amber lit up with her butter wouldn't melt smile then looped her arm around Warrick's arm. "First dance?" 

"Uh--" 

"C'mon, Mr. Brown. 'Anything we can do to help?' Remember? You don't want Grandmomma and Granddaddy having to dance all by their lonesome, do you?" 

"Uh," Warrick looked from her dark brown eyes to his best friend's. 

Nick shrugged. "Don't need my permission, hoss. Amber gets what she wants when she wants it." 
 

"Uh," Warrick looked back down at her determined smile. "Well, all right. First dance it is. Where and when?" 

Squeezing his arm, Amber sparkled, "About a quarter to eight. Right after the toast and presentation of the--" she looked around then whispered "--anniversary quilt. Everybody who wants to dance goes out those doors at the back and up into the sculpture garden. Sorry, the music will suck." 

"Amber," Nick warned. 

"It's old people's music from 1955!" 

"That's your grandparents you're talkin' about. Behave." 

"Well, whatever," she huffed, then turned the charm back on and leaned in to Warrick. "Meet me here, and we'll walk up together."  

Hoo. Nick was right. The girl was organized and direct. "I'll be here." 

Her dimples grew even deeper. "Great! See you then!" She squeezed his arm again before Warrick pulled free. He quickly followed Nick over to the nearest open bar. 

"Shiner Bock," Nick said to the bartender. 

"Make that two," Warrick added. 

They tipped the bartender, sipped their beers, then wandered over to scope out the food tables. Everything looked great and smelled delicious. But Warrick couldn't really concentrate on the food. He had a question he needed to ask. 

"So how much trouble am I in?" 

"Shouldn't you be asking Gris that?" 

"Funny guy." Warrick nodded in the direction of the welcome wagon, "Amber."   

"Amber's harmless, Rick. Just hand her off to the nearest male relative when the first dance is over, and you'll walk away unscathed. It's the other two you gotta worry about." 

Warrick looked over at the three young women. Arms crossed, Kimber and Meghan were glaring at Amber. 
 

Nick took another sip of his Shiner. "You dance with her and not with them, and it's adios, amigo." 

Kimber and Meghan broke off glaring at Amber only to glare at him. He offered them a dazzling smile and a salute of his beer bottle. That helped a little. The glares scaled down to suspicious stares. Damn. He better arrange for his second and third dance right away. Or Meghan might find another use for that Visconti Aida Limited Edition pen. 

****** 

"Oh. Sorry." The apology didn't reach those pale gray eyes, but that didn't matter. Warrick was past accepting apologies. 

He stared at the college-age jerk who'd bumped into him. A muscle-headed fool who looked more at home in a bowling shirt than a suit. Just one of a quartet of jerks who'd made a point of bumping into Warrick all night.  Accidentally on purpose. "Sign up for dance lessons, pal, or I'll school you myself." 

The pale eyes narrowed. The tanned face scowled. 

Warrick smiled, dipped his dance partner in a showy move, then danced away. He would've been more than happy to knock that fool on his ass, but Warrick was a civilized man who didn't make scenes at a party for his best friend's parents. 

It was 10:30 at night. Warrick had danced with every Stokes female over the age of fifteen. Hell, he felt like he'd danced with every female over the age of fifteen in Dallas. It had been fun, but it had been tiring. Not physically tiring. Mentally tiring. And not just because of the bumps and stares and whispers. 

It's not that Warrick wasn't used to standing out in a crowd. He was a big guy. Counting his short afro and dress shoes, he stood almost six foot, five inches, and weighed over two hundred pounds. And it's not that he wasn't used to being one of the few African Americans in a sea of Caucasian Americans. After all, the permanent population of blacks in Las Vegas reached only ten percent. His workplace even less. And it's not that he wasn't used to being around the rich and powerful. Millionaires and billionaires might not make their homes in Las Vegas, but they sure as hell partied there.  

What Warrick wasn't used to was being treated like . . . .like . . . well, like an exotic creature. Like a party favor. Like a photo opportunity. Like a may-I-touch-your-hair-gosh- you're-so-well-spoken-all-of- your-people-dance-so-divinely freak of nature. Damn. Some of these folks acted like they'd never seen a black person before. Well, outside of "the help."  
 

Whether ignorant or racist, this crowd had worn him down and out. And that's why, when the all white band strummed the final notes of "Only You (and You Alone)," made famous by the Platters--yeah, there's an irony--Warrick excused himself from his dance partner and headed for a seat along the edge of the terrace. A quick stop to rest a pair of aching dogs in too-tight dress shoes before he hunted up Gris. 

"Warrick?" Jillian Stokes called to him. The surly-faced four jerks and a grim-faced Nick Stokes stood to her right. Warrick almost pretended not to hear her, to avoid the confrontation, to head off into the twilight and get lost among the massive, peaceful sculptures in the garden. But he'd never run away from a fight in his life. He drifted over, the epitome of cool, class, and charm. 

"Mrs. Stokes," he smiled down at her. 

"Mr. Warrick Brown," she smiled, too, but her dark eyes simmered. She gripped his hands and leaned up to kiss him on each cheek. Damn. Nick's mama had a grip like a bulldog. 

"Warrick, I don't believe you've been properly introduced to these young men." She nodded at the four jerks, then snapped, "Those paving stones aren't made of gold, gentlemen, I'm talking to you." 

Four faces popped up, wide-eyed and flushed beet red.  

"Carter James?" 

"Yes, ma'am?" Ah, Bowling Shirt Boy with the pale eyes. 

"I'd like you to meet a great friend of my family, Warrick Brown." 

"'lo," the young man gulped, never quite meeting Warrick's stare. 

"Carter, you might want to get to know Mr. Brown. He graduated magna cum laude with a degree in chemistry, a subject I'm sorry to hear you're currently failing at UT Arlington. Your mother can't understand how the son of a petroleum engineer could fare so poorly."  

Damn, these Stokes women played rough. Carter went from beet red to Texas A&M maroon in a heart beat. Warrick was a little embarrassed, too, to have the academic achievements he kept so carefully hidden hauled out in public. He glanced at his best friend, the only person who could've told Jillian that Warrick had graduated magna cum laude. Nick stood ramrod straight, veins in his arms and neck straining. Good thing Jillian was handling this, or there would be bodies to bury. 

"And you, Reed Thompson?" Hoo, Reed looked like he was about to puke. 

"Yes, ma'am." 

Jillian stared expectantly at the young man, pinning him like Gris would a dead fly.  

"Uh," the young man stammered. "Uh, p-pleased t-to meet you. S-s-sorry, Mr., uh, Mr. Brown." 

"Reed, did you know that Mr. Brown has had several articles published in peer-reviewed scientific journals? Perhaps you can get writing tips from him. I understand from your father that you've had to ask for three extensions on your senior thesis." 

Reed bobbed his head and looked around for the nearest hole in the ground. 

"As for you two," her dark eyes bored into sandy-haired young men who were trying their best to look tough but came off as one drop shy of peeing their pants. "Johnny and Jason Hemphill. Hoping to be accepted into law school in a few  years. Isn't that right?" 

"Yeah," Johnny squeaked. 

Nick gave a hard squeeze to the back of Johnny's neck. "That's my mother you're talking to, Mr. Hemphill." 

Johnny turned a whiter shade of pale. "Yes, ma'am! Sorry, ma'am!" 

"You could learn more than a thing or two from Mr. Brown." Her dark eyes swung to Warrick. Thank god they were finally twinkling. "I believe you've audited courses at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas? Their Law School?"  

Warrick nodded. "Yes. Criminal Law, Criminal Procedure, and Constitutional Law."  

"I understand your Criminal Law professor tried to talk you into going to law school. You made the highest test score, did you not?" 

How the hell did she know that? Yeah, he'd made the highest score, but he'd had no interest in going to law school. He hated lawyers. Not a thing to let slip in front of a senior attorney for the Dallas County Public Defender's Office. Warrick wisely kept his mouth shut and merely nodded his head.  

She rounded on the Hemphill boys. "Did y'all know that Mr. Brown has given testimony as an expert witness in over 50 trials? You might want to rely on his experience one day. Assuming you ever make it into a courtroom as officers of the court and not defendants." 

Holy fuck. Warrick had just witnessed a bonafide cowgirl roping, tying, and branding four little dogies. They better be grateful she hadn't turned them into steers. 

"Ma'am, we're real sorry," Jason groveled. 

"I'm not the one you need to apologize to." 
 

Jason swallowed then took a hesitant step toward Warrick. "Mr. Brown, I'm, uh, we--" he looked back at his brother and two buddies, who all said, "yeah, yes, we." Jason blew out a breath and again faced Warrick. "We, uh, we were being stupid. We apologize. And-and, uh, it won't happen again." 

Warrick wished he could believe that. Their promises meant shit, but he couldn't be ungracious in front of Mrs. Stokes. "See that it doesn't. " 

The four little dogies bleated, "Yes, sir." 

"I'll echo Mr. Brown's admonition." She stared at them, obviously considering what to say and how to say it. Who would win out: the attorney or the cowgirl? The dogies shifted, Nick tightened his grip on Johnny Hemphill's neck, and Jillian let loose. 

"I swear to God, if I didn't know your parents, I would have figured you'd all been raised by a pack of ungrateful coyotes. Your willful, disgraceful behavior has embarrassed your parents and  embarrassed my family." Oh, lord, this has got to be how men look when they're facing a firing squad. "From this moment on, I promise that you will have a Stokes on your tail. A Stokes who will scrutinize each and every one of your careers. Microscopically. You better pray we never have to have this conversation again. Y'all understand me?"   

Four heads bobbed up and down like survivors fresh off the Titanic. 

A deep breath then a smile like a good day. "Well, now, I reckon your dates might be missing you. Nick, hon, would you escort these young men back to the Hall?" 

Nick began herding the four little dogies as they choked, "Thank you, ma'am. Never happen again, ma'am. Sorry, Mr. Brown." And off they shuffled, heads down, hands in pockets, tails between their legs. 

"Damn," she sighed. "Every time I think we've made progress in this country, some fools who ought to know better do something stupid. Maybe if they socialized more with people different from themselves . . ." She shook her head, gave a wry, apologetic smile. "But that's hardly their fault, is it? This party is whiter than a cottontail's ass." 

And that's when Warrick fell in love with Nick's mom. But that didn't mean she got a free ride either. After all, who was responsible for the party being whiter than a cottontail's ass? 

"You know, I got a lot of relatives in this part of Texas. Some of them even like a good party." 

A flash of guilt, then a rueful smile. "Point taken. You're gonna help me walk my talk." 

"If you're willing. Who knows, maybe you can stop somebody before stupid starts." 
 

"Oh, I am all in favor of that." She blew out a big breath, "Before y'all head back to Vegas, give me contact info for your family. But only the ones who like a good party." 

He met her grin with his. "You got a deal."  

He started to turn away, but the band's guitarist strummed the opening notes of "A Blossom Fell," and his heart stirred. It had been one of Grams's favorite songs. He felt the need to honor his grandmother. And, because Grams would have insisted, to show forgiveness to Mrs. Stokes.  

Warrick said, "You feel like dancing, Jillian?" 

Dark eyes studied him, and then that megawatt Stokes grin broke out. "Only if it leads to scandal and ruin," she teased. 

"Hey, I can get you to scandal and ruin faster than anybody," he teased back and held out his arms. 

With that patented Stokes grin, she stepped into his loose embrace. She was a fine dancer, light on her feet, in tune with Warrick's movements.  

"Did you enjoy your family reunions today?" she asked. 

"Yeah, I did. Saw lots of folks I hadn't seen since I was little. Barely recognized most of them. If it hadn't been for the pictures they sent Grams in all the Christmas cards and birthday cards and graduation cards, well, you get the idea. Yeah. It was good to reconnect." 

"I bet they're all proud of you." 

"Well, I wouldn't say it was unanimous, but nobody turned down a present." 

She chuckled. "You didn't see me turning down a present, either. Thank you for the table cloth and napkins. They're perfect for the dining room." 

"Nick helped us pick them out." 

"Oh, he's a good son. Steered you to the most expensive ones, I hope?"  

Warrick laughed. "Nope, that was Grissom. Man has an eye for quality." 

"Yes, he does," she said. And she said it like it carried an extra meaning, only Warrick wasn't quite sure what that extra meaning could be. "Well," Jillian smiled. "Speaking of Gil, how did he handle meeting all the long-lost relatives?" 
 

Huh. Other than Nick, Nick's mama  was the only member of the Stokes who hadn't seemed surprised that Gris had gone visiting with Warrick. 

"He . . . " Warrick paused, trying to think of a way to shine the most favorable light. 

"Hated every minute." 

A dimpled grin. "Oh, yeah." 

"And still he went." 

"Well, yeah. Man didn't want to risk getting called on to entertain the kids again." 

"Oh really," Jillian said, raising her eyebrows, pursing her lips, generally indicating she wasn't buying that explanation for a minute. She looked out at the sculpture garden. She and Warrick danced a few steps, then she said, "You know, when you celebrate a milestone--" 

"Like a 50th wedding anniversary?" 

"Much like a 50th wedding anniversary," she grinned. "People always want to know: 'what's your secret?' 'How did you put up with Roger all these years?'" She shook her head. "Well, it's easy. It's easy to put up with him when he's busy putting up with me." 

"Oh really." Yeah. Warrick could play the skeptic, too. He decided she needed a little dancer's dip, just to shake things up. 

"Woo, I haven't done that in ages," she puffed, as he settled her back upright. 

"Brings out the trust and the truth in your dance partners," he smirked. 

Her dark eyes narrowed. "Now listen here, Mr. Doubting Thomas.  It's true. Roger and I stayed together by putting up with each other. I learned to play golf to be with Roger, and Roger learned to ride a horse to be with me. I joined the Rotarians; he joined the League of Women Voters. I go with him to the opera; he goes with me to the rodeo. Got that?" 

Green eyes sparkled. "Yes, ma'am."  

"Good," she nodded.  

They danced a few steps, then Warrick asked, "You like going to the opera?" 
 

"Sometimes. You couldn't pay me to sit through Bela Bartok again. I'd sooner listen to my grandson Mason play the banjo. And that's a sound that'll make you update your Last Will and Testament. But that's not the point of all this gabbing. Roger and I stayed together because we grew together. Every year we'd try something new. Every year. We'd try it. If we honestly didn't like it, we'd say so. And we'd try again the next year. The important thing is we worked hard to be together." 

Warrick nodded his head, made encouraging noises, did all the right things a good listener does, and all the time wondered why Jillian was telling him all this. 

"I bet you're wondering why I'm talking your ears off." 

"No, I, uh, it's . . . great advice." 

She snorted. "It's not advice, Warrick. It's observation. It's what you and Gil already do." 

Stunned, Warrick stumbled and nearly pulled Jillian off her feet. "Jesu--uh--s-s-sorry. Uh, you, uh--" 

Proud of herself, she said, "I figured it out at Desert Palm." 

"You, uh, the," he swallowed. "You mean the hospital?" 

"Yes, dear, Desert Palm Hospital. Where Roger and I visited Nick every day for over a week." She dropped her voice, "And where I watched you and Gil every day for over a week. Warrick, hon, you might want to close your mouth before you catch a horsefly or two. Nasty things." 

He snapped his jaw shut and stared at her.  

She patted his shoulder. "Don't worry. Nobody else knows." 

"How," he croaked. "How can you be sure?" 

A bitter smile. "If any other Stokes knew, well, anybody besides Nick and Travis knew, you and Gil would not be spending the night in our home. That's my biggest regret," she said as sorrow rushed across her face. "I caved in to . . . well, I never stood up for my gay nephew. Or my gay son." 

Damn. If she pulled any more rabbits out of her hat, Warrick was gonna expire on the spot. 

"You know about Travis?" Warrick whispered. 

"I suspected when he was eight. But 'you can't be queer and be a man,' can you?" Sarcasm laced her voice and twisted her smile. She was obviously quoting someone. Her husband, perhaps? 
 

"Jillian." He knew what she was feeling. He hadn't stood up when his family had mistreated Aunt Lucille and her long-time love Dinah Lee. He'd only stood up when the family had mistreated him and Gris. Not something Warrick was proud of. "Look, don't be too hard on yourself. But promise me you'll stand up for Travis now. I think he's gonna come clean." 

"Yes. Nick told me this morning that his brother had finally confessed." She took a deep breath, nodded her head, and promised, "I will stand up for my son." 

"Good." Green eyes gazed long into her determined face. He'd just seen her in action standing up against four rich boys. She'd been formidable then. But could she stand up against her husband? 

"Well," she said at last. "It seems you've helped rescue another one of my sons." 

Warrick shook his head. "Hey, I just helped a couple of Stokes boys do what they're good at." 

"Oh? And what's that?" she asked suspiciously. 

"Being indestructible pains in the butt." 

"Hah!" The patented Stokes grin broke out like a spring in the desert. 

Yeah. This was good. She'd recovered enough for Warrick to pick up that other thread she'd spooled out so surprisingly. "So, uh, so Nick didn't tell you about me and Gris?" 

Her dark eyes twinkled. "Oh, lord, no. Nick might tattle on his big brother but never on a friend."  

Before Warrick could question her further, "A Blossom Fell" came to an end. He and Jillian separated smoothly and applauded the band. But Warrick wasn't about to give up. He was far too curious to drop this conversation. How had Jillian worked out that he and Gris were together? The band struck up "Rock Around the Clock," and Warrick again held out his hand. 

"You game for another?" 

She glanced around the terrace, at the dancers that had gotten younger as the evening had gotten older. "Actually I think I'd rather sit and talk. There are benches in the garden, just beyond Suvero's 'Eviva Amore.'" She pointed past a spotlighted giant tripod of brownish red steel. 

Warrick and Jillian stepped off the terrace onto thick bladed grass and headed for the giant sculpture. 

"'Eviva Amore,'" Warrick said, as they strolled underneath perfectly balanced beams threaded through a massive steel ring. "Long live love." 
 

"Appropriate, don't you think?" 

They shared a smile. "Oh, yeah." 

The further they traveled from the gleaming terrace, the more the garden came to life. As the music faded, crickets sang out. Twinkling white lights woven in the branches of live oak and cedar elm diffused a gentle glow. Soft moonlight and mute spotlights transformed solid stone and steel into flickering light and shadow. 

When Jillian and Warrick reached the cool granite benches, Warrick removed his jacket, folded it, and gallantly placed it on the bench for her to sit on. 

"A true gentleman," she sighed and sat down gratefully. 

"Would it spoil your opinion if I said I was looking for an excuse to take it off?" he said loosening his tie and collar. 

"Not at all, dear," she groaned, slipping out of her high heels and rubbing her feet. "That was probably a mistake. I'll never get them back on." 

"No worries," Warrick rolled up his sleeves. "Plenty of strong bodies here to get you back to your car. Maybe even carry you all the way back to the ranch." 

"Now, that would be a sight." She breathed deep and contented. 

"Could I get you something to drink?" 

"No, hon, just give me a minute to recoup. And then all will be revealed." 

He grinned and gave Jillian the time she needed. From the benches he could make out some of the looming works of art: a crowd of headless human figures; two metal walls that curved together side-by-side; cubed metal boulders scattered by a careless giant. Warrick liked abstract art, letting the artist and viewer work together to form meaning. And as he waited for Jillian, he concocted meaning, though probably not what the artists had anticipated.  

Warrick imagined the cubed boulders hurtling to the ground. The human figures were screaming, trying to save themselves by diving between the two curving walls. But the walls were too short, and the crowd didn't duck, and heads rolled. Damn. Maybe he'd worked as a CSI too long 

"So," Jillian said. "So you want to know how I figured y'all out." 

He pulled his attention away from the decapitated statues. "Yeah."  
 

"Well, you know, I was a bit distracted. At first. Wondering if Nick was going to pull through." 

"I hear that. But he's like his mama. Tough."  

"Well there's tough and then there's tough when you're being tortured by a psychopath." She gazed out at the garden for a moment then shook her head. "But that's neither here nor there. Once I knew Nick was out of the woods, and I could relax a little, I started paying attention to the folks who were visiting. And, I have to tell you, I was confused. Nick always said he loved working in Vegas because you CSIs worked so well together. On top of that y'all were all great friends. And that was obvious when Catherine, Sara, Sofia, and Greg would come to visit. But you two," she shook her head. She grasped her knees and rocked back and forth. She blew out a deep breath. 

"The first few days you two hardly spoke to each another. Hell, you'd hardly look at each other. I thought something had happened at work, some terrible disagreement while you were rescuing my boy. But, no, I'd see Gil brighten like the sun when you'd walk into Nick's room, and then he'd shut down faster than a poker game when the preacher comes to visit." 

Unsettled that Gris could seem so transparent to someone else, Warrick took refuge in a joke, "You don't know the preachers in my family." 

"No. But I know how you behaved when you came to visit my son, Mr. Brown."  

Okay, Warrick shrugged. No more jokes.  

"You'd never even look at poor Gil. Not until his back was turned and he was on the way out. Then your gorgeous green eyes would follow him even after he'd disappeared, and still you'd watch the space he'd just left. And then . . . when was it? Sunday night I think. Roger and I came back up to the hospital to spend the night, and there y'all were. You and Nick, Catherine and Gil laughing together in Nick's room. Laughing at some story you were telling about you and your cousin." 

Her black eyes prompted him. "Chris." 

"Chris. Yes. I saw your faces before you realized we were there. Gil's eyes shining like Christmas, and you leaning in toward him just a little closer than friendship. Did my heart good to see that, but it made me wonder what the hell had happened." Left eyebrow raised, Jillian looked a question at Warrick. 

Normally he wouldn't share his business, but this was his best friend's mother. And she already seemed to know more of his business than he did. "Gris broke a promise. He'd promised . . . well, he'd promised to take care of something that was . . . affecting us. Granted, it wasn't something he was keen on doing, but he said he'd do it, and he didn't." Warrick shrugged, "And it hurt." 
 

She leaned forward, dark eyes intent. "But you forgave him." 

"Yeah," he smiled wryly. "Kinda hard not to when I'm in love with the guy." 

"Yes." Her gaze flicked to the museum's terrace. "There are only a few unforgivable sins in marriage."  

Huh. Marriage? She saw Warrick and Gris as married? 

Jillian sighed, "But sometimes you wish that even a forgivable sin hadn't been committed." 

He nodded, not about to bring up that he knew about her husband's fling with his secretary. Scratching the back of his neck, Warrick redirected, "It's hard for Gris sometimes. To open up. To show his feelings. Much less talk about them." 

A sly smile. "I thought that was common among American men."  

"True. But Gris? Hoo, he takes stiff upper lip to a whole other level. But he's trying, you know. Trying to trust me." 

She nodded. "And you trust him?" 

"Sure." 

"You love him with your heart, your head, your soul, your body?" 

"Hell, yeah." 

He hadn't hesitated, and yet her dark eyes bored into him. "Then why are you sitting here talking with an old lady instead of being with him?" 

"Hey, now--" 

"Hon, I know you've got to be careful, but you sure seem to overcompensate. Did you really need to dance with every female here?" 

"I was just--" 

"Are you so afraid of missing out because you chose Gil?" 

Green eyes widened and full lips fell open in shock. Damn. Only Grams ever talked to him like this. And then the coup de grace. 
 

"Or are you afraid you might miss meeting someone better than Gil?" 

His chest felt like he'd been punched. Was that why? Was that why he couldn't, wouldn't . . . Damn. His eyes blazed. Through clenched teeth he hissed, "There's no one better. There could be no one better." 

She flashed like she'd just struck gold, then she patted him on his tense bicep. "Warrick, honey, I apologize if I've upset you. I've raised three sons, eight grandsons, and one husband, and early on I came to realize it's best not to pussy foot around with you men. Now that I know where you stand, I've got to tell you that there's something on your mind regarding Gil. Something that's bothering you. Something holding you back. What is it?" 

Goddamn, these Stokes women played rough. Warrick shifted on the cool, hard bench and looked over at the decapitated statues. He suddenly felt a real kinship with them. Boulders flying everywhere and nowhere to duck. Even then, there was no way he was gonna discuss his sexual dilemma with Nick's mama. Hell, he wouldn't even discuss it with Nick.  

"It's not . . . It's not Gris. It's me." 

"Have you talked to Gil about what's bothering you?" 

"No. Not . . . not exactly." 

"You should. You either talk about it or you let it go. You can't allow it to linger, or it will haunt everything."  

Warrick dolefully nodded. He knew that. Hadn't he managed to ruin last night's lovemaking with his fears? 

"Well, Mr. Brown, I think we've been away from our respective spouses long enough." 

"Yeah," he said, grateful she was turning him loose. Turning him loose after turning him upside down and shaking all the spare change out of his pockets. Damn. Still, he was chivalrous enough to notice her bare feet. "You need me to carry you over to Judge Stokes, or you gonna put those murder weapons back on your toes?" 

"Neither," she smirked, stood up, and strode barefoot straight for the terrace, high heels dangling from her hand. Tough lady, indeed.  
 

Warrick stretched, picked up his jacket, but didn't put it back on. If Jillian could ditch her shoes, he could ditch this overheated strait jacket. Now to find his boyfriend. Warrick tilted his head. Future spouse? A gentle smile. Yeah. One day. Well, boyfriend or future spouse, Warrick needed to find Gris. Deeper into the garden seemed the most likely place. By this time of night, he'd try to be as far away from as many people as he could get. 

Warrick strolled along the paved walkway, past hedges of close-clipped holly, until he came upon another sculpture by di Suvero. "For W.B. Yeats" the placard read. Warrick grinned. He must be getting closer, because Yeats was one of Grissom's favorite poets. Not one of Warrick's but Yeats still had his moments. 

"I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea," Warrick quoted softly,  green eyes tracking the swooping curves of solid steel. And solid steel seemed to move, to take flight, to transcend its form. Free as a bird. Free as Warrick wanted to be with Gris. With a sigh, he turned away, following the path as it veered right and joined the broad pavement running along one of the garden's exterior walls. He surprised a young couple who'd taken advantage of the darkness and high hedges to sneak passionate kisses and secret touches. 

"Sorry," he said as they straightened their clothing and fled back to the museum. 

With a shrug, he moved deeper into the garden, passing more sculptures and more couples, until he reached a shallow pool where lily pads floated. The music of 1955 was at its faintest here. Fountains burbled and crickets whirred. More like a garden of nature than one of artifice. Warrick breathed deep and stretched the muscles in his neck.  

He walked along the pool until he noticed  recessed double doors set into the back wall of the garden. The doors glowed blue. Being a curious man, Warrick immediately made for the blue doors. Ducking inside, he found himself in a short hallway that almost immediately curved right. He followed the hallway to another set of double doors. He opened the door on the right and entered a small air conditioned room lined with granite at the base, white plaster walls on top, and a roof that had an opening to the sky. On one of the granite benches around the base of the room sat Grissom, handsome face turned to the sky. He seemed mesmerized. 

"Hey," Warrick said. 

Startled, Gris turned his attention from the sky to his boyfriend. "Hey." 

"You expecting somebody else?" Warrick grinned wickedly and sat down beside his boyfriend. 

"No. Well, yes." Pink lips quirked. "Many a disappointed couple has turned away when they spotted me." 

"I can understand why. This has got to be the perfect make-out spot." 

"Warrick, we are sitting in a work of art, one of James Turrell's skyspaces." Gris looked back up at the sky. "This room is intended for contemplation, meditation." 
 

"Huh. Well, I'm contemplating licking your neck right now. Does that count?" 

Yeah. That brought out the exasperation on the boyfriend's face. "There are closed circuit cameras in here," he warned. 

"Baby, the guard watching you watch the roof has got to be bored to tears. Why not liven things up a little?" 

Not too surprising, Gris simply pursed his lips, ignored Warrick, and continued to watch the sky. With an indulgent grin, Warrick relaxed back against the cool granite. Arms crossed, long legs stretched out, he tilted his head and looked out the roof. The sky was beautiful. Framed by the opening's stark white edges, the sky seemed like an ever-changing canvas. The background was a gradient of black, blue-black, and gray. Gusty, transparent clouds streamed by. Bright stars glittered warmly. And as the canvas morphed so did the frame, lit by muted colors projected on plaster walls. 

"Reminds me of when I was a kid," Warrick said. "Lying back on the grass in the spring, making shapes out of clouds. Before it got so hot." 

"I watched the stars at night," Gris said softly. 

"Me too. Especially after my mom died. I prayed . . . I prayed that God would turn her into a star. So I could see her again." 

"The soul rejoining the universe. Plato." 

"Yeah. 'Phaedo.'" Out of the corner of his eye, Warrick checked Grissom's reaction to the classical reference. Pink lips curled with pleasure, blue eyes shone with pride, but Gris didn't say anything. Which was okay, because Warrick hadn't expected him to. A knowing grin as Warrick asked, "So what do you think happens when a person dies? Reincarnation? Heavenly choirs? Nothing?" 

"I'm sure something happens. E equals MC squared. But whether the soul rejoins the universe or simply dissipates into static electricity, I have no proof." 

"I'm not asking for proof, baby. What do you hope for?" 

Gris marveled at the beautiful night sky. "To rejoin the universe. I'd like my atoms to brush up against those that were once Einstein, Galileo, Newton." 

"How about Locard?" 

Shaking his head, Grissom said, "When I'm gone, I'll be through with forensic science." 
 

Warrick chuckled. "Uh huh." 

"What about you?" 

Green eyes left off watching the sky and studied Grissom's profile. "I'd like to see Grams again. My mom." Warrick smiled, "You, if you go ahead of me." 

A lopsided smile and bright blue eyes. "If there is a heavenly choir, you'll be in it." 

"I believe the Bible says that all of us will be in it." 

"Well, there's the general, all-purpose choir, and then there's the "souls who can actually sing" choir. That's the one you'll be leading." 

"Oh, now I'm leading? You got me taking over from St. Michael?" 

A shrug. "Who else can integrate hip hop into the angelic chorus? You'll have Tupac singing Bach in no time." 

"Hah! Jam Master Jay sings Georges Bizet. Yeah, twenty bucks says you can't come up with another," Warrick challenged. 

Watching Grissom try to dredge up another dead hip hop star out of his brain was about as entertaining as watching a Victoria's Secret fashion show, but for once Mr. Encyclopedia ran dry. 

"I got nothing," he admitted at last. 

"Nothing? You got nothing?" Warrick teased. "After all those hip hop lessons I been giving you?" Oh, yeah, that pouting bottom lip came out as Warrick pounced. "How about Biggie sings Puccini? Or Eazy-E sings Rossini?" 

"Impress me with a name that doesn't end with ee, because you aren't gonna run out of Italian composers anytime soon," Gris growled, crossing his arms, and slumping in defeat against the granite wall.  

"All right." Warrick licked his upper lip and threw down his ace, "Mac Dre sings Jules Massenet."  

And Grissom slumped lower. Man, but Warrick loved it when his baby pouted.  
 

And it was this: the utter silliness, the complete absurdity of a contest rhyming dead rappers with classical composers, that made Warrick realize that he was free. He didn't need anyone else. He wasn't missing out on anything or anyone. He had found the other half of his soul. He could say anything, do anything, be anything with Gris. He could be a white bird, a black bird, a blue bird, a pink and purple polka-dotted bird on the foam of the sea. And with realization came resolution. 

"I want to go to a hotel." Warrick stood up and offered a hand to Gris. 

"Right now?" Though confused, Gris still took Warrick's large hand. 

"Yeah, right now." Pulling his boyfriend to his feet, Warrick hugged one arm around Grissom's back and guided him toward the double doors. 

Obviously sensing the importance of Warrick's announcement, Gris stopped. Right eyebrow raised, he asked, "What do you want to do in this hotel, anima mea?"  

Determined green eyes met eyes beautiful and open as the sky. "I want . . .I want to try something new." 

The eyebrow flew higher, but Gris relented, letting himself be guided. Through the double doors, curving through the hallway, out through the next set of double doors into the steamy darkness, they strolled together. Warrick kept his arm around Gris as they took the right-hand path. They didn't hurry past the rows of flower beds and trees, but they didn't stop, either. Even Grissom did not slow to gaze at the sculptures. The band rocked it with "Maybellene," but the two men didn't pause to listen. They took the grassy stairs back down into brightly lit Nasher Hall. 

As they stepped into the cool museum, they spotted most of the older members of the Stokes clan gathered around a table near the ruins of the anniversary cake. Jillian sat holding hands and talking with Judge Stokes. Nick shared a joke with brother Sam, Card Shark Missy, Party General Lisa, and her husband Jeff. Becky Lynn and Banker Bob pawed through the gifts. Travis rubbed his mother's feet. Huh. Looked kinda like the family had circled the wagons for the night. 

Out of habit, it being such a public place, Warrick dropped his arm from around his boyfriend's waist. A heartbeat passed, then Warrick felt a strong hand clasp his.  

"You sure?" Warrick whispered. 

"Yes. I want to try something new, too." A wry grin and a shrug. "If things go wrong, Nick can always run interference, while we sprint for the Lexus ahead of the mob of outraged Stokes." 

"Hoo, baby, you better keep up." He straightened his massive shoulders. "Let's do this thing." 

Hand in hand they approached the table. 

"Nick?" 
 

"Yeah, bro?" When he spied their joined hands, Nick's smile froze. But it froze because of surprise not disgust, because his smile quickly blossomed into a grin. So did Jillian's. So did Travis's. Everyone else's pretty much stopped at froze. 

"Gris and I are gonna spend the night downtown. You and Travis--" 

"Can catch a ride back to the ranch, no problem." 

"Cool. Uh, you still want to leave at noon tomorrow?" 

Oh, lord, Nick's grin blossomed even more. "I reckon I can wait an extra hour or two. Whenever you two lovebirds drag yourselves back will be fine." 

"What the hell's goin' on?" Judge Stokes tried to stand up but his wife had his arm locked in a vise. 

Jillian said, "These are our guests, Roger. These are the men who rescued Pancho." 

But Roger ignored her. "Nick? Are you sayin' . . . Are you sayin' that . . ." His thin mouth hardened. "They're not our guests. Not any longer. My God, Jillie, they're a couple of--" 

"Heroes. They're heroes, plain and true. And they'll be our guests as long as they want."  

Warrick felt Gris gather himself, no doubt to protest against being labeled a "hero." Tugging his boyfriend's hand, Warrick shook his head. No, baby, his green eyes warned. We stay out. O-U-T out. Blue eyes looked skeptical, but Grissom stayed silent. 

Roger had stayed silent, too. Warrick looked back to see Judge Stokes, mouth open wide but no words coming out. His pale eyes stared unfocused. But number one son Sam took up the protest. 

"Mom, for Chrissakes, you can't be serious! Think about your grandchildren!" 

"I am thinking about my grandchildren," Jillian snapped. "I'm thinking about how I let my children and grandchildren be poisoned with prejudice. How I stood by and watched basic decency and humanity fly out the window because of fear. Because of ignorance. Because of hate filled ideology. Well, that's not happening in my home. Not anymore."  

Complete silence at the Stokes round table. Jillian and Roger stared at each other, Jillian with complete confidence and bulldog determination, Roger with wonder, as if the woman he'd lived with for the last 50 years had suddenly grown an extra head. Nick and Travis were obviously backing up Jillian. Sam and Becky Lynn their father. Lisa, Missy, and the in-laws had gone all Switzerland. They stared fascinated at the stains in the table cloth. Warrick wondered if maybe he and Gris should just start running. 
 

Suddenly Becky Lynn sat up straight and brayed, "Well, if that's your attitude, Bob and me and the kids won't visit the ranch again! Ever!" 

"Shut up, Peanut," Sam, Nick, and Lisa nailed their little sister at the same time. 

"You don't turn your back on the family, and you never threaten Mom," Missy added. 

Peanut burst into tears. 

Travis was the first Stokes to move. He put his arm around his baby sister's shoulders. "Come on, honey. Being around queers isn't so bad." He hugged her. "You've kinda been around one all your life." 

"What?!" Horrified, Peanut took a long, tear-filled look at Travis, at the sincerity on his face. 

He nodded and looked around the table, dark eyes settling on his father. "I'm tired of lying, y'all. Tired of trying to be something I'm not."  

Judge Roger Stokes sat boneless, speechless. His wife's hand seemed to be the only thing anchoring him to life.  

Jillian squeezed his hand and smiled at her son. "Travis, honey, I'm proud of you." She looked around at her family. "And I expect all of you to be proud of Travis, too." 

"Travis can go to hell," Sam slammed his fist on the table and jumped up, aiming to storm outside, but he found his brother Nick in the way, calmly blocking his path.  

Softly Nick said, "I've been to hell." 

Sam stiffened in shock. All the Stokes gasped. Warrick gasped, too, and felt his hand gripped tight by Grissom. Everyone in the Hall fell silent. 

Nick stared at his oldest brother. "I was buried in a box underground until my air ran out. I almost died. But you see those two men over there, Sam?" Nick pointed at Warrick and Gris. "They found me. They saved my life. And you know what else? They made me heal. Gris never treated me any different. He never stopped expecting my best. Warrick kicked my ass everyday. Made me get up, made me work, made me live. So you tell me, Sam. You think I should turn my back on them because they happen to love each other? You think I should turn my back on them just like you're turning your back on Travis?" 

Sam Houston Stokes looked like he'd been struck by lightening. He stood swaying, grim faced and trembling. His mouth opened as if he was trying to open his heart, but then it snapped shut. With a shake of his head, he side-stepped his little brother and left the Hall.  
 

Sadness dimmed Nick's dark eyes, but it did not weaken his resolve. "What about you, Cisco?" he challenged his father. 

Grimacing, shifting in his chair, Roger Stokes rasped, "Son . . . it's . . . it's against everything I've ever believed in. Everything I've ever known." 

Nick shook his head slowly. "No. It's not. You always told me that the greatest commandment was 'Do unto others as you'd have them do unto you.' And I know you, Cisco. You've tried to practice what you preach. But you got to reach a little further, now. You got to practice on somebody you don't agree with." 

Roger's chin sank on his chest. Nick waited a moment and then he said, "But if that's not enough to convince you, consider this: if you reject Travis, you have to reject me, too." 

Pale eyes snapping open, Judge Stokes obviously did not take kindly to being blackmailed, but it only got worse. 

Lisa leaned forward, ditching neutrality. "Me, too, Daddy." 

"Me, too," Missy nodded. 

"And me," Jillian pleaded, hanging on to her husband's hand. 

Warrick noticed Becky Lynn stayed silent, but she also stayed within Travis's embrace. Maybe she was too confused or too stunned or too chastened to say anything. Or maybe she just didn't get a vote. 

Everyone waited, still, silent, and breathless. At last Roger Stokes blew out a deep breath. "Well, I reckon I finally have an explanation for the two divorces and no children." 

All around the table, every Stokes relaxed. The in-laws looked like the countdown to nuclear launch had just been stopped. Gris lightened his grip on Warrick's hand. 

"Well," Jillian smiled brightly then leaned over and kissed her husband on the cheek. "I think this shindig is officially a celebration. Time to break out the good stuff, Lisa!" 

"You got it, Mom," Party General Lisa popped to her feet and scampered over to the only bar still open in the Hall. 

"But what about Sam?" Becky Lynn peeped out from behind the arms of Travis. 

"Don't you worry, Peanut," Missy reached over and patted her baby sister's hand. "Once Sam figures out that having a queer in the family won't damage his political career, he'll be back." 

Damn, Warrick gulped. These Stokes women played rough. 

Nick rounded the table and joined his friends. "So where y'all gonna spend the night?" 

"Hadn't really thought that far ahead," Warrick admitted. 

Oh, man, that patented Stokes grin. Nick pulled out his cell phone. "Got you covered, bro. I'll get you into the best hotel in Dallas." 

"We can't afford the best hotel in Dallas," Warrick said before Gris could. 

Grin dimming into a bulldoze stare, Nick lifted his chin. Hoo. Now Warrick could see the resemblance between Nick and his mama. Nick said, "Listen, bud, what's the point of having a large, powerful family if you can't exploit it?" 

Before Warrick could think of a reply, he felt Grissom jerk his hand in surprise. Green eyes flicked to his boyfriend. Excited, gleeful blue eyes were fixed on the center of the table. Where Lisa Stokes had just set two open champagne bottles, gold labels studded with beads of moisture. 

Gris leaned into Warrick and whispered, "Anima, that's Louis Roederer Cristal 1999 champagne. That's not just the good stuff. That's the very best stuff!" 

An indulgent grin unfurled on Warrick's handsome face. He looked around at his best friend wheeling and dealing on the telephone, at Jillian and Roger rocking in an embrace, at Missy holding Becky Lynn's hand, at Travis breathing free for maybe the first time in his life, and then at Gris, the love of his life, accepting a flute of champagne like it was indeed a gift from Bacchus himself. And Warrick shook his head. No, baby, the very best stuff has been here all along. 

****** 

They were on the eighteenth floor of the Adolphus hotel in downtown Dallas. They were surrounded by Queen Anne furnishings and Chippendale tables and chairs. They stood barefoot in thick carpet in front of the window in their darkened room. The view out their hotel room window was spectacular, but Gris only had eyes for Warrick. 

Light from the moon, neighboring skyscrapers, and street lamps streamed romantically through the privacy curtain. The tips of Warrick's hair glowed like a halo. Grissom felt as if he were living a dream. He was dancing with an angel. A beautiful flesh-and-blood angel. The weight of muscled arms rested on Grissom's shoulders while Gris wrapped his arms around his angel's waist, leaning in close, swaying together, sharing kiss after kiss after kiss. Slow and steady. Slow and steady to make this perfect for Warrick. To give Warrick time to relax and to be absolutely certain. To give only pleasure and avoid any pain.  
 

As they'd left the Nasher, Lisa Stokes had sneaked an extra bottle of the Louis Roederer Cristal 1999 into Grissom's arms. It gleamed golden and half empty on the hotel room's mahogany coffee table, but Gris hadn't indulged. He wanted to be clear headed, not only to savor the moment but to remain in complete control so as not to risk hurting his boyfriend. Warrick, though, had nervously drunk three glasses. 

"You thinking maybe we should move over to the bed?" Warrick whispered. "My knees are shaking like a full gospel church on Sunday morning." 

A soft chuckle, a lingering kiss in reply then Gris pulled back and began unbuttoning his boyfriend's damp shirt. Kissing his way down soft skin, inhaling Burberry aftershave and Warrick's own natural perfume, Grissom couldn't be any more intoxicated if he'd drunk a whole case of Cristal '99. 

"You are so precious to me," Gris murmured against a sweet chocolate brown nipple. 

He heard Warrick gasp then steady himself. His voice shook as he tried to mask deep passion with smooth cool. "More precious than bling-bling champagne?" 

"Infinitely." Grissom licked a path through curly chest hair over to the other nipple. 

"M-more precious than Miss Shelob?" Warrick shivered. 

"Yes." 

"More precious than," he swallowed, body swaying. "More precious than--" 

"My life, anima mea." Pink lips abandoned stiff brown nipples for ripe coral lips. The kiss blistered like fire, hot and consuming. 

"Jesus!" Warrick hissed, staggering. Gris grabbed his boyfriend's hips, steadying him. Quickly Grissom unwrapped his lover, draping shirt, belt, pants, and boxers over the nearest armchair. As gracefully as he could, Gris slow danced Warrick over to the bed. Earlier, while Warrick had drunk champagne, Grissom had prepared the firm, wide bed, drawing down the extra sheet, blanket, and goose down comforter, setting out lubricant, condoms, and towels. 

Warrick chuckled nervously, "Baby, either I'm drunk or you've gotten to be a better dancer." 

"Probably a little of both." Yes. Grissom recognized his boyfriend's tactic. Keep it light to hide nervousness, to hide anything that could be perceived as weakness. A knowing smile, a kiss to an amber brown earlobe. "I even danced with Jillian earlier this evening." 

"Tracked you down, huh." 
 

"That woman is a force of nature." A kiss to a muscled shoulder then Gris sat Warrick on the bed. 

"Hoo. I think that whole family is just a stiff breeze shy of a hurricane." 

A lopsided smile. "Sounds familiar."  

As Grissom loosened his tie, he watched Warrick slowly topple over onto his back on the bed. Gris speeded up undressing. True, he wanted Warrick relaxed but not insensate. 

"Heh. Damn, baby, I am so proud of you," Warrick rumbled as Gris shucked off his boxers. 

"That I didn't crush Jillian's feet?" 

"Uh huh. Well, that and you didn't hop aboard the first flight back to Vegas." Warrick raised his arms, large hands spread as if picturing a giant marquee. "Attack of the Killer Browns! Revenge of the Stokes! Heh. A double bill, and my baby made it through the whole show." 

"Yeah." A sardonic growl, but Gris kneeled on the bed, leaned over, and sweetly kissed his boyfriend. "I'm a prince."  

Jade green eyes flared hot. "Then wake me up, my prince," Warrick challenged. 

A large hand landed on the back of Grissom's neck and guided him in for an open mouthed kiss, tongues sliding, seeking, caressing. Fingers skated over smooth skin, ruffled soft beards, kneaded firm muscles. Gris nudged Warrick to the center of the bed where the two men could stretch out side by side, legs intertwined, arms wrapped around each other. And kissing, oh yes, kissing. Lips soft and yielding, then hard and demanding. Lips moved over chins and throats, over noses and ears.  

Kissing was wonderful, but it wasn't enough. Grissom's cock was already full though not yet aching. He needed to move before his own release became urgent. Tonight was about Warrick. Tonight was about giving him pleasure he'd never experienced. 

Slowly Grissom eased lower, kissing a straight line down a hard sternum. He traced his tongue under the swell of a chiseled chest, licked and nipped his way over sculpted abdominals. Long, musician's fingers tightened on his skull as he nuzzled his beard into curly pubic hair. And when he licked the length of a hot, thick cock, the fingers locked him in place. 

"Ohhh," Warrick moaned. "Yeah. Oh, yeah, baby, there. Like that. Like that." And then his words devolved into needy whines and groans. 
 

Yes, Gris smiled, feeling the power. Yes. He sucked the head of Warrick's plum colored cock into his mouth, coating it with hot saliva, flicking his tongue over it, gently raking his teeth over it. Grissom lavished his attention on Warrick's beautiful cock. Lips sealed tight, sliding sweet friction up and down, over and over. Tongue and teeth alternating soft and hard sensations. But Gris didn't stop there. His sturdy hands gripped Warrick's muscular ass, massaged the solid muscles, brushed down between his ass cheeks. Sensitizing him, preparing him. 

"Jesus!" Warrick's strong fingers wandered restlessly over his boyfriend's scalp, neck, and shoulders. The muscles in his ass and thighs clenched rock-hard. "Fuck! Oh, Baby. Gonna cum! Oh! Oh!" 

Suddenly Grissom pulled his lips off Warrick's cock with a loud pop. 

"Noooo!" 

"Easy, love, easy. Let's make this last," Gris gentled, running his hands over quivering thighs and hips. By now he could judge when his boyfriend was on the brink, and Gris planned to exploit that knowledge all night long. Until Warrick begged for release. 

A panting whine. "Want you," swollen lips whispered. "Please . . . baby." 

Grissom scooted up, firm hands stroking overwrought muscles. Tenderly he kissed his boyfriend's lips, cheeks, and forehead until panting shallow breaths evened into full deep breaths. A brilliant smile, a ferocious last kiss, then Gris snagged two ampules of lubricant and a condom off the nightstand and dived back down. 

As he coated the middle fingers of his left hand with lubricant, Gris licked his boyfriend's rampant and leaking cock from tip to base.  

"Ohhhh," Warrick moaned. 

Easing Warrick onto his left side, Grissom slipped his slick fingers between his boyfriend's tight, muscular ass cheeks. Slick, skilled fingers teased circles around the shy entrance then pulsed delicately, asking permission. Warrick groaned, shivered, and tensed. Gris expected that. Gris half-expected Warrick to call things off, but he didn't. Taking a deep breath, Warrick raised his right leg and draped it over Grissom's shoulder. Opening himself up like a rare orchid. 

Dear god. Gris took a deep breath, too. How precious was this gift? How precious that Warrick, the most masculine of men, should offer himself? Give himself freely? Another deep breath, then taut lips encircling Warrick's thick cock, Gris slowly sank a firm finger into Warrick's ass. The constricting heat made Grissom groan. The vibrations rippling around the head of Warrick's cock made Warrick groan.  
 

"Oh, baby, please . . . please." Unbidden, his hips lurched forward, filling Grissom's throat. Gris was ready, though. He eagerly welcomed the large cock filling him, even as he filled Warrick. 

While his lips and tongue and throat pleasured the thick cock, Gris slowly pumped his finger in and out. With his other hand he stroked along Warrick's perineum. Skilled fingers worked together, inside and out, to tease the prostate. 

"Oh, damn!" Warrick wailed. "Damn! Damn! Damn!" His large hands fisted the bed sheets then beat on the mattress. When Gris eased a second finger into his lover's tight body, Warrick keened, grabbed a pillow, and bit down on it. His hips surged uncontrollably forward and back. Gris could feel the cock in his mouth swelling, gathering, so he backed off again. 

"Goddammit!" came a muffled cry. "God fucking dammit!" 

"Shhhh, anima," Gris crooned, kissing quivering muscles. "I'll take care of you, sweetheart. Patience." He dribbled out the remaining lubricant onto his fingers. 

"Fuck patience!" Warrick snarled, leaning up on his elbow. Sweat glistened on his beautiful but impatient face. "Suck my dick right n--" 

Three fingers entered him, curled, found his prostate.  

Cupid lips formed a perfect "O." Green eyes widened in surprise then fluttered closed. "Ohhhhh, damn," he whispered and slumped back down. 

Yes. Oh, yes. Gris could feel all nervousness dissipating, all resistance dissolving.  Tense tight muscles melting. Warrick trembled with want, but Gris wanted to be absolutely sure.  

Sky blue eyes gazed up into an angel's face. "I'm going to let you cum." 

Blazing green eyes peeked from behind heavy eyelids. "Oh, god, yeah, baby, please." 

"I'm going to let you cum, then I'm going to cum inside you." 

A heartbeat. Two. Then Warrick nodded his head. He pushed back against the hard fingers in his ass. "Uhh. Yeah. Want it," he swallowed. "Want you so bad, baby." He rotated his hips, driving Grissom's fingers in and out. Gris almost came just from feeling the needy muscles gripping his hand. 

Like a starving man, Grissom fell on taut cock and balls. Sucking, licking, stroking, kneading. Summoning Warrick to the brink and this time letting him plunge over. Powerful hips surged off the bed, nearly displacing Gris. He held on, bathing cock, swallowing cum, as muffled cries rained on his ears. He ran his fingers over sensitive balls drawn up tight against Warrick's body. Shrieking moans died down to quivering cries. 
 

"Oh," Warrick panted. "Oh, baby. Oh, sweet Jesus." Boneless, completely satisfied, his body curled onto its side. 

As the large cock slowly softened in his mouth, Gris swirled a last lazy tongue around his prize. He let it slip from his lips and kissed the head. Then he rolled to his knees. He slid his fingers from Warrick's body, quickly freed the condom from its foil pouch, and rolled the thin sheath on his cock. His hands began to shake as the fantasy he'd harbored for years, for decades, was about to become real. A deep breath. He clumsily broke open the remaining ampule, hissed as the cool gel spread over the condom. He wiped his hands on a towel and lay down behind Warrick, snugging his chest against his lover's broad back. Gris reached down to guide himself into Warrick's body, but long, musician's fingers were there ahead of him, lifting his heavy cock, positioning it. Then Warrick's hips moved backwards, and Grissom's cock glided slowly inside.   

"Ohhhh," the two men breathed together. "Ohhh, yessss." 

Once he was fully inside, the insanely tight heat almost overwhelmed Grissom. Eyes shut, forehead jammed into Warrick's shoulder, Gris gulped in great breaths. 

"Oh, baby." Warrick panted and clutched Grissom's hip. "Damn . . . wait. Please . . . don't move. So big. Damn." 

Somehow Gris waited without exploding. Soft beard stroked a firm shoulder. Pink lips kissed a caramel-colored neck. Strong fingers stroked caramel-colored skin: an arm, a chest, a stomach, a hip. 

"Anima," he whispered. "My beautiful anima." 

At last the hard grip on his hip released. Long, musician's fingers intertwined with his own blunt fingers. And Grissom began to rock. He rocked gently, back and forth, back and forth, filling Warrick then releasing him, giving and receiving, loving and being loved. Their fingers squeezed together at each careful penetration. Their bodies moved together as one. Their moans rose and fell together. Even their heartbeats seemed to synchronize. The motions so tender that the men ached. So perfect that they tried to make it last forever. But of course it couldn't.  

Grissom's body betrayed him. Kept at bay so long, his orgasm swept out of his control. Vice-like, he gripped his lover's hand. Hard teeth raked a vulnerable shoulder. Harsh moans beat against Warrick's back. Gris plunged hard into the muscular ass, hips pistoning wildly in and out, chaotic slap, slap, slapping against firm flesh.  

"Anima!" he cried. "Anima mea!" 

"Yours," Warrick moaned. "Always, baby!" 
 

Hovering sightless on that sweet brittle soundless peak then collapsing, mindless, graceless, Grissom plummeted down the other side. He panted harshly against a strong shoulder. He felt his limp arm pulled up and around a hard chest. 

"Mmmmm," rumbled the beautiful man whom Grissom loved and who, beyond Grissom's complete understanding, loved him. 

"Yes," Gris nodded.  

They lay peaceful and content until the cool conditioned air chilled Gris into movement.  

"Stay here," he kissed Warrick's shoulder then rolled off the bed for the bathroom. Flushing the condom in the toilet, he grabbed a warm soapy washcloth, a dry handtowel, and a flashlight. He cleaned and dried himself then Warrick.  

Then Gris flicked on the flashlight. "Roll over onto your stomach." 

"Baby?" A puzzled look on his boyfriend's beautiful face. 

"I want to make sure you're all right." 

"I'm good." 

"You're always good. But I want to make sure." 

An indulgent smile, a shake of his handsome head, and Warrick settled on his belly. Gris made a thorough inspection. No bleeding, no tearing, no abrasions. There was bound to be soreness, but that might be welcome, if Grissom's experience held true. A body's aching reminder of last night's tender passion. 

"Will I live, Dr. Grissom?" Warrick joked. 

"Yes. And you'll most certainly live up to your reputation tomorrow."  

A puzzled frown. "My reputation?" 

"Yes. Your smart ass will certainly smart tomorrow." 

As Warrick rolled his eyes, Gris delivered a sweet kiss to each muscular cheek. Then they settled for the night, Gris flat on his back, Warrick pillowing his head on his boyfriend's chest.  
 

Threading blunt fingers through thick curls, hugging his boyfriend's powerful body, Gris wanted to thank Warrick for this evening, wanted to praise him for stepping beyond whatever had held him back, wanted to tell him that the word "love" was completely inadequate to express how Gris felt. But all Grissom could muster was "Feel okay?" 

Somehow, for once, it was the right thing to say. A deep breath, a bearded cheek nuzzling into his chest, bright eyes full of love and joy. "Baby," Warrick said. "I feel free." 

****** 

"Man, you all right?" 

Warrick fought back the grimace and molded his lips into a weird forced smile. "Yeah, buddy. Doin' great." 

Scrutinizing dark brown eyes raking over his best friend, Nick said, "You don't look great. Looks a whole lot like you're hurtin', pardner." 

A snort came from the back seat. 

"That better be Hank the tank I'm hearing, boyfriend," Warrick warned, green eyes glaring at the rear view mirror. Unrepentant, wicked blue eyes winked back. Self-satisfied bastard. Gris reclined across the back seat, one hand holding a copy of Langston Hughes poetry, the other scratching Hank the hell hound stinking up the floor board. Warrick had a sinking feeling that Nick was never getting his dog back. 

Warrick shifted gingerly. Damn, he wasn't sure what hurt more, his head or his ass. What the hell had he been thinking last night? Well, obviously he hadn't been thinking. He hadn't taken into account that he'd be driving all day before guzzling half a bottle of champagne in under half an hour. Just like he hadn't taken into account that he'd be sitting down for over 1200 miles before letting--hell, encouraging--his boyfriend's heavy duty cock to plow through his virgin ass like a Mack truck through a picket fence. Smart move, Brown. Fucking brilliant. 

"Hey, c'mon bro, I can drive," Nick said, trying his good old boy best not to smirk. Perceptive bastard. 

"No. I'm good," Warrick snapped, laying a death grip on the steering wheel as a sharp ache drilled behind his left eye. Fucking Tylenol. Not worth the plastic it was wrapped in. 

"Heh, yeah. Suit yourself," Nick grinned, stretched, took one last look at Midlothian before Warrick gunned the Lexus onto US 287. Then Nick began to hum. Whatever he was humming didn't match what was coming out of the radio. Bob Marley. Three Little Birds. "Don't worry . . . about a thing . . . 'cause every little thing's . . . gonna be all right." 
 

Ho, man, Warrick gritted his teeth, adjusted his dark glasses. Any other time, and he'd be chilling. Ain't nothing like a Rastaman jamming to chill a brother out. But if Bob couldn't work a miracle, no way Nicky's off-key corn pone humming was gonna do the trick.  

"Nick--" 

"Rick--" 

Best friends interrupted each other. 

A weak smile. "Go ahead, man," Warrick prompted. 

"So, uh, y'all have a good time last night?" Oh, damn. Nicky was doing his best not to burst out laughing or blush. Got to give the boy his props. 

Warrick took a deep breath and decided maybe a little conversation would distract him from the pain. "Yeah. That was some party, man." 

"Yes it was," dark eyes sparkled. "Though I wasn't exactly referring to--" 

"Hey, Gris," Warrick thought it was time to remind Nick that Mr. Privacy himself Gil Grissom lurked in the back seat. "You enjoy the party?" 

"I enjoyed the sculptures." 

Nick and Warrick exchanged an amused look. "Was that a 'yes' or a 'no'?" Nick asked. 

"C'mon, baby, ya gotta love any party that has a wow finish." 

"Casablanca," Grissom intoned from the backseat. 

Warrick grinned at Nick's puzzled face. "The movie. Humphrey Bogart asks Ingrid Bergman if the story she's telling has a wow finish." 

"Did it?" 

"Hoo, yeah." 

Nick lazily scratched his arm. "Huh. Well, uh, too bad y'all didn't hang around for the really wow finish." 

"Yeah?" 
 

"Yep. Missy and Lisa shoved Sam into the fountain pool. Wouldn't let him out until he apologized to Travis." 

"Heh. Damn, the women in your family play rough." 

"Oh, you ain't seen nothing yet, pardner." Teasing, dark eyes flicked in the direction of the back seat, then Nick cleared his throat. "Just thought y'all would like to know. Mom and Lisa are already planning for Christmas. Gonna bring the whole family to Vegas." 

This time a soft gasp rose from the back seat. 

"All nineteen grandkids, too?" Warrick peered into the rearview mirror. Ah hah! Blue eyes didn't look so wicked, now. Did they? Yeah. Suddenly Warrick Brown was feeling a little better. 

"They're thinking one big kick-ass party. To celebrate everything. Stokes and Browns and CSIs and lab rats everywhere." 

"Oh, I could seriously go for that," Warrick grinned. "I wanna see your mama rope and brand Ecklie." 

"Hah. That weasel steps out of line, she'll do it." 

Oh, yeah, Warrick Brown was definitely feeling better. He watched his best friend nodding to the music, eyes bright and hopeful, mind and body and spirit healing.  "Don't worry . . . about a thing," Bob Marley sang. "Every little thing . . . is gonna be all right." And Warrick was feeling it, too. He took a deep breath. Thank god for rock steady, best friends, and boyfriends. 

As Warrick retraced their long journey back to Vegas, Bob Marley gave way to Midnite who gave way toToots and the Maytals who gave way to Marcia Griffiths. "I Feel Like Dancing" even got Nicky's toes tapping. 

And then from the back seat, Gris suddenly stated, "Excalibur." 

Warrick shared a puzzled look with his best friend. It took a moment, but Warrick soon realized what his boyfriend was saying. The Excalibur ruled the Strip as the family friendly casino. It was exactly the place that he was going to tell Jillian to book for Christmas. Huh. Was his baby actually making a friendly suggestion to Nick? 

"I think that's where Gris is suggesting your mama and Lisa hold Christmas court." 

Surprised, Nick swung his head to look at Grissom. "Yeah?" 

"A senior vice-president at MGM Mirage owes me a favor," Gris said. 
 

"And MGM Mirage owns the Excalibur," Nick nodded. "You're thinking a senior vice-president can get us the best price." 

"Seems logical." 

Nick quirked his head. "You'll pull in a favor for me, Gris?" 

Warrick glanced in the rearview mirror as lines crinkled around smiling blues eyes. But of course Gris merely shrugged and said, "What are friends for?" 

"Uh, thanks," Nick said, wonder in his voice. He turned slowly in his seat and stared out the windshield. His dark eyes seemed suspiciously wet, but he was smiling. Yeah. Smiling and rocking to Nana McLean. "Don't worry about me . . . No feel no pain . . . If I should fall . . . I'll brush myself off . . . Yes I'll rise again." 

Warrick grinned and nudged the Lexus up to 78, only 13 miles over the speed limit. Oh, yeah, best friend beside him, boyfriend in the back seat, Warrick Brown soared free.

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